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I’m 8 years old. It’s breakfast time, and I want another scone. Mom says no, I get upset, I’m sent to my room. I break the drywall above my bed with my head.
It’s my first day in a new school. I’m awkward, timid, reserved: fresh meat. A belligerent classmate dares me to say ‘Fuck.’ I try to ignore him; silence is the easiest form of resistance. He persists until the teacher comes in. It means nothing to him. It stains the rest of my day. I’ve just had a small tiff with my girlfriend and I’m pissed and sulky. My friends and I are going out. In the stairwell one of them throws a friendly taunt. I grab his throat and trap him against the wall for a split second before my senses return. I’m falling asleep next to my S.O. My hand creeps up and rests over her breast, just rests. It feels good to have someone to hold. I’m walking to the museum with my country-mouse cousin. In the big city I feel especially protective. A solicitor comes up and presses a newspaper on us, insistent. I lash out and slap it out of his hand. We need to talk about our boys.
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May 2020
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