The Forgotten Child. D. E. White

       Chapter 10

       Dear Mum,

       I’m having a shit day and I wish you were here so bad that I can almost taste it. Sometimes I kneel in front of your wall and screw my eyes tight shut. Dad says if I stay like that and count to one hundred you might reach out to me. If he’s had a bad day he makes us both kneel and times us. We have to sit still for an hour and he gets mad if I move and says I’m ruining it.

       I don’t really know what he means. He says he can feel you though. If I’m honest, I can’t feel you at the moment.

       We’ve moved around a lot since you died, and of course I don’t remember a lot of the places we’ve been, but we’ve been in this flat for six months now. It’s another different school and they take the piss all the time and say I’m weird because my accent is different to theirs. Whatever. I’m not like Alice Cauldon who says she wants to be a pole dancer and lets the boys look at her pink bra, and I’m not smelly like Ben Alder or stupid like Alex Smith. I’m just me. But they don’t like that, Mum. Sometimes I don’t think Dad likes me either, even though I’ve taught myself to cook and work the washing machine. When he gets hammered, I try and make sure he passes out on the sofa or in his bed.

       I look in the mirror and try to figure out why I’m different and why my life is different. But I just see a normal kid with messy hair and a few freckles. A kid who’s got his mum’s black eyes, and his dad’s pointed chin. He’s not fat or thin. He’s not small or tall. He’s just normal on the outside. But they still don’t like me. It’s Kyle Wilson who’s the worst. Today he said I was a loser and a freak because I don’t have a mum. How does he know that? It worried me a bit because part of the plan is that people don’t know much about us, about where we come from or where we are going.

       Today when I went back to the shooting range with Dad, I imagined Kyle’s face on the target, with his big white teeth and square face, and I got my highest score ever. Dad was really happy because he says it all counts towards the plan. Every single thing we do is training. When Dad’s not been drinking he can be fun.

       But it hurts when people say stuff. Dad says to man up and to be strong or we’ll never be able to make you proud. But it’s hard at the moment and I feel like crying. It hurts inside and I can feel the pain tingling in my fingers. I’m cold too. The flat has mould growing up the walls and the heaters only run if you shove coins in them. If I don’t remember to ask Dad for coins before he starts on the cans then it stays cold.

       Don’t worry, Mum, I won’t cry, because boys don’t cry. I know he’s a liar though because I’ve seen him crying for you. I won’t tell him because it might make him crazy and he’s been kind of okay for a few weeks now. Thanks for making him okay for a bit, and if you could keep him away from the beer that would be great.

       I love you, Mum x