I am an island, cliche' but true. For a time I thought "what the hell, I'll play along' Hence the bully shit...
I did it up proper. I am now, after everything, ashamed. Actually sick to my stomach to remember it all. Oh and I do remember. Every second, every minute, everything. It only serves to renforce the urge to stand up and duck out. But I don't because he comes in to my view again. Now I am down to his waist to hips, this time he mixes the pattern up and turns so I get a slow scene played out. His narrow waist turns and reveals his hips into his ass. Then his figure is out of sight. The counts stop, the view is empty.
Now my hands sweat and the window of escape is gone. Now I wait for what I know is coming. The buzz of the phone, the secretary picking up the receiver and the call of my name. It is those brief seconds that my cursed memory stop time.
Five, I was five, maybe six. I was dropped in the room where they contained all of the kids at your run of the mill weekend event my parents drug us to and I of course went to the appointed area. Lego land and hotwheels. But there was a boy over by himself, a flash of sparkly blue eyes and shock of sun-kissed curls that kept drawing my eyes. He was alone hunched over a book, but he looked so happy. He looked enthralled and content. And it pissed me off.
"Mr McCarty will see you now."