Just a Boy

Four

Four

When I was 9, I'd suffered a fair amount of abuse at such a young age. My childhood had faded at least 5 years previously. I was unaware of the impact that would have on me in just a few more years, but at that age, I was starting to realise that maybe this wasn't supposed to be happening to a child. The other boys in my class would have cuts and bruises on their knees from playing football or soccer or just generally being a boy. But not like my bruises on my hips, my arms, my wrists, anywhere my clients could get a hold of me. The other boys wouldn't have large bags under their eyes like mine. They weren't up all hours of the night afraid of being attacked by the landlord. They came to school everyday in new, clean clothes. Whereas I would sit in the back of the classroom in old dirty clothes.

I was depressed. That much was evident. But no one ever did a thing about it. My teachers would ask me about my bruises, they'd ask about my dirty clothes and why I never had any lunch. I always made excuses like Mr Linderman had told me to do. Truth is, my mother didn't care about my well-being and we couldn't afford food. The lunch lady always gave me a free sandwich when she could. I hate people giving me things because they feel guilty. 

I can specifically remember one of my teachers asking me "do you like living at your house? Is it warm there? Do you have a place to sleep?" and in my head, I'm saying no, my house is cold, I sleep on a dirty mattress and I don't know how to successfully kill myself. But instead I answered "I'm very Mrs Williams honestly. Don't fret over me please" and the subject was dropped immediately. Never again did they ask about my home situations. Mr Linderman had always told me to lie about it. 

There was one particular lunchtime, when one of the boys in my class approached me. Brad was the biggest bully in our school. But he was nothing compared to some of my clients. He always sat under one of the large trees out of the way of the other kids. No one could see me hidden there, while I watched the other kids play. This was my sanctuary. No mom, no clients, no pain. Just me in the breeze, thinking about life. But Brad came over one day, and punched me in the face. 

"Why are you such a freak, Gage!" He teased, as 9 year olds do. "No body wants to be your friend because no body even likes you!" he added. The other kids laughed, and he proceeded to punch me some more. I just took it. I knew it would my face would be a bit battered and it could potentially lose me work, but Mr Linderman always says not to bother confrontation. And even at 9, I was hoping he would hit me so hard it would kill me. 

I wanted to die. I was more than ready to just leave my body behind and go and find my escape. But no matter what I just couldn't find a successful method. But it's not something they teach you in health class or home economics. Brad has a good swing I'll give him that, but his beatings didn't hurt me near as hard as his words. I was already aware that no one likes me. I don't have friends, my own mother hates me, and I don't exactly have anyone else in the world who can support me. My clients don't care about my welfare. They just care about my performance. 

One of the teachers came out and took him away and I was sent to the nurses office. She sorted out my bloody nose and asked some questions about my exciting bruises. "Its fine, don't fuss" I sighed to her. I've always been told that I'm nature for my age. But you have to be when working in this field. Luckily the nurse said I looked tired and run down, and she let me go home earlier. I took it in my stride, figured I could possibly get an extra client today because of the extra time. My work  comes before my grades. It has to.