#thestoryofthecat

“Oh, they’re arguing again”

said the bystander in exactly the tone she despised, in the bystander’s humble opinion.

‘Shut. Up,’ she hissed. ‘And stop changing things.’

‘I’m trying to be pleasant and you just keep whacking me over the head,’ said one of the C’s.

‘Possibly because you are not my real brother at all, and being incredibly creepy.’

‘Keep saying that and I’ll defy your terms and conditions and publish the f*cking thing anyway.’

‘Really? Go for your f*cking life.”

This was what it was like, in this … “I said STOP IT.”

‘No YOU didn’t, I did!’

‘Oh come onnn,’ said the bystander. ‘ He is NOT that bad, is he?’

‘It’s my past she doesn’t like,’ he said. ‘Okay, I know I’m wrong, but it’s as good an excuse as anything. See that? She’s correcting me again. MUUUUUM.’

‘Nope. Not today, f*ckface. I know I wrote that properly, and you simply cannot get your face out of your own arse. See that. It’s ARSE.’

‘Why do they keep fighting like that,’ said the bystander. He leant back and picked up his shiraz.

‘That’s awful, that stuff,’ said the real C. No one knew who that was anymore, except her, and the one who named himself after someone’s…

‘MUUUUUUUM.’

‘Lame ass crepes,’ said the butcherer of really good euphanisms.

‘You see that? That is what the problem is. It totally is. AND I can make up words like butcherer, because butcherer is right, in my opinion. You just add shit up. That’s all you do.’

‘I am NOT MY DAD,’ he screamed/muttered, if that was even a thing. ‘It is NOW,’ he said. ‘Because I read scripts and you don’t and seriously they write that shit down, and I don’t know whut they’re trying to do with it.’

‘It’s what.’

‘Watt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Learn something new every day.’

‘Are you still fighting?’ the bystander asked.

‘No, she, being the cats mother, has decided she’ll keep watching it, although she already knows she is going to prevent herself from throwing things at the screen because I am not an absolute see you en tee in it, but really nice, so there. Okay so that was a lie, and you’ll see what I mean. Okay, I’m going because she attacked me WHILE I WAS ASLEEP, and that’s not the done thing around here.’

And off he stompled, the slightly overweight greenhorn musician from another language entirely laughing merrily to himself at their daft manoeuvres.

‘I’m not going home yet,’ added the other other C. ‘This is way too much fun, and my mum said I’m a good boy when I’m not sailing very large sailboat-pats (oh haha) in her river. I simp-luh-feud that, mummy, just so you know, because that was not me, it was not him, it was the other c the little one with the big hair and really short fretful ladies who call him busted. Ha-dee-ha-ha.’

‘Well then. I’ll pretend that’s the one I’m sending really nasty things to then,’ said his wonderful parent of no relation. ‘Thank you very much.’

And then the kettle popped on for no reason at all.

Many moons later, they decided to train the dog.

It had taken a while to realise the actual dog was what had caused all the problems, but now that she knew, she knew what to say to him (the dog).

So, she told the guys she allllwayyys argued with, the commands one had to say to make the dog behave himself.

He was (mostly) much better behaved than he was when he had been an alive dog (I know, just go with it) as he actually returned the things he had fetched, instead of running off with them and being a twit. She had found this out the previous evening when something had happened, and he’d brought it back for her.

For no reason at all, this had turned the bloody woman into a big sook, so she said to her dog…

‘That’s enough now, mate. Take a break, take a breath, and relax.’

And, for some reason, that made a number of people feel a lot better than they had for quite some time.

A little while after that, she said another short command to the dog, which was very specific to her own dog’s taught commands.

It worked, because when one has specific commands that only their own dog understands, things can get pretty hairy for those who do not understand those specific commands.

Just get on with it.

‘Remain calm, remain calm.’ The illustrious scribe cleared his throat. ‘I have made a list of all the thingies, and I’d just like to say I’m pretty sure Mum and Dad did it right.’ He glanced over at the mama, who nodded. She was not wearing the correct reading glasses again, he noticed, and his mouth twitched slightly as she blinked.

‘I don’t think that’s blinking,’ said the third one as he industriously pulled up his sock. ‘That is just really weird face-pulling, that’s all I want to say.

‘Silence,’ said the scribe as he positioned himself on a rock. ‘I have folded up my headgear this morning, and it makes a rather good cushion.’

‘Do we get to say what the dad did wrong,’ said the thirsty one. ‘Because I believe I could add a few pointers.’

The mama sighed, and began to clean her glasses. ‘It won’t make any difference,’ she mouthed at the scribe. ‘They aren’t mine.’

Number three was very busy shouting about things again. No one knew why because the back door was wide open.

‘That is not funny,’ said the scribe in a very severe voice. ‘Mum said if you get rude again, I can use the tennis racquet, not you.’

‘I think my head piece has fallen sideways,’ said the second one. ‘Why didn’t they size this thing, and…’ he watched as a random stranger wandered past. ‘.. Was he invited?’

‘No.’ Many people said this very quickly indeed. ‘That one is a very kind best friend of number one, and we do not talk about it.’

‘Right, well then,’ said number five. ‘Give me a lemon and I’ll squeeze it freely all over the great mind’s serendipitous whatsimajig.’

‘I don’t know what to do about that,’ said the scribe as he fussily wrote all the words down. ‘I said, “No, Pasha, we don’t tell them all the things, we wait for all the real people to rock up first, then we tell them all the things.” ‘

‘Mama said that too,’ added four. ‘I just want to know why I’m four and not three, although I must admit, he’s not too bad looking for a…’

‘You are four,’ said the mama. ‘Now get down from there before you hurt yourself.’

Four lowered himself from the pavilion’s roof as slowly as he could without injuring himself. ‘That was demonstrating how wonderful I am,’ he said, staring furiously at the scribe. ‘Which you aren’t even though you can write well, you’re not my homey, he is.’ And he pointed at number one, who frowned. ‘See, we both have magnificent eyebrows, and although I am quite sure we are not related, which would be weird, he said I look okay for a nob-head. I am not a nob-head, by the way, I’m an institutional bastion of the community, or something.’ He growled at the mama’s correction. ‘You are not getting away with that either.’

There may have been a bit of cackling from the mama as four pulled up three’s socks and tried to jump into his position. ‘You are not Three,’ she muttered. ‘Get over it.’

‘I want to be three, though,’ said Four. ‘Because then I’d be even more like Freddy Mercury, and you could see me all the time.’

The mama was not quite sure what he meant by that. ‘That’s nice, dear,’ she mumbled under her breath. ‘Which one did you mean?’

‘You know exactly who, I mean’t that as well, and the other one, and all the ones I sent you on a platter because it was stuff like that which makes my mum talk to me, and that’s why I did it, and that’s freshly made bread over there, and see, my mum said I was a good boy when I wanted to be and did you get all that, mama, cos I said it really really quickly but too bad I didn’t see that coming.’

The scribe had made another copy of the things four had said over the years, and he posted them in his very large maniacally written booklet of great and horrible things four had done over the years.

Three looked down at his shoes. ‘I am desperately seeking another pair of fabulous shoes, because mum didn’t let me look.’

‘Lemons are for buttheads,’ said five. ‘And I know because when I was little mum kicked me out of the bedroom because her and dad were making fishes, she said, and I still don’t know what that means. Do you?’

‘My mum said they didn’t do it right anymore,’ said five’s made up friend whom five was pushing backwards with his foot. ‘They didn’t let me finish — my mum said that too.’

‘Right, that’s enough. It’s a new something or other,’ said the mama. ‘I think you lot have been up all night and most of the day besides, and I’m sure it’s past someone’s bedtime.’

‘Yes, it’s way past my bedtime,’ said five. ‘Mum has to start yet another day without three and four, and I think she doesn’t really just let me say one thing.’

‘What is it,’ said the mama, rolling her eyes dramatically.

‘We are not getting any younger, mama, please come back now.’

‘No.’

‘DO AS YOU’RE TOLD,’ shrieked three, and tripped over his sock. ‘I can be really mean when you aren’t here, mum, I can too, yes I can, no I cant, no I don’t want to be mean, I want my mum back and she doesn’t want to come back, and I don’t know why this is that time isn’t it, I am sad now.’

That would have to be all for the time being, because boys can be really yucky when they want to be sometimes, and sometimes their mama just wanted to dismantle them all and put them in jars as a reminder to all the other ones that this was probably what she did better than anyone else. Last night’s very carefully displayed scene of her pulling Two’s arms and legs off had horrified everyone except the one who had owned a barbie doll when she was a kid and done exactly the same thing.

‘Last time we didn’t even last that long,’ said a demonic child from hell. ‘Last time, we didn’t even see that coming.’

This One

There you are. There is your opposite. Listen to them chirp and repeat themselves. It won’t take long.

‘There he is.’

‘Is that him?’

‘Oh, I can’t tell how old he is.’

‘Who’s this? Is this the one?’

‘I can’t tell, I can’t tell.’

This is where we disagree. I don’t see this one like you/they see him. No, not at all.

They will be jumping through more hoops than they can count, and I’m not the one to lay those hoops down.

The other one laughs out loud. ‘This is where we agree.’

It won’t be ‘kindly remove,’ at all, now will it.

‘Most definitely not,’ says an older version, who knows this well. ‘I can see the riots, almost. Not those types of riots,’ the friend adds quickly. ‘I see the other kind, the kind I had to deal with, simply from something just like this.’

Across the ocean and in the middle nods, neither sagely, nor thymely. ‘Oh, the poor chap,’ he says quietly, because what he’d picked up along the way had come there quite some time ago. ‘I didn’t think you’d let him down, and you did not. Not at all.’

He regrets this decision later, perhaps, but not right now. Very much right now, he whispers fiercely. What the hell was I thinking.

I’m sure he’s laughing on the inside, and I am likely correct, yet again, because I’m rather good at that.

‘But, who is it though?’ someone whispers. ‘Who is he?’

I will stand up and walk away, and leave them to it.

‘Made it myself,’ I say and high five the much taller one beside me. There is a conspiratorial wink.

‘My mum said that too.’

Just kidding.

Three Thirty am – the witching hour.

There is a little Golden Book story I would tell my kids when they were little. It was something about a mouse that decided to go sailing on his bed. He would get up, brush his teeth, and do a list of boring things before starting his day. I’m not sure why it was important to start with this particular image, but who am I to argue?

As I’m writing this — having got up, for no particular reason (aside from old habits) at three thirty am, the cat has decided to meow forlornly at glass doors because apparently, once again, he has forgotten where his cat flap is. A cat flap is a cat door. I needed to write that because “language barrier”. I don’t know either, I’m just repeating what the little voice beside me says.

So, the extremely contrived image sent to me during last night’s (it’s still last night, and one half hour past the witching hour when I woke up, ya bastards), was the picture of an old fashioned key sitting on the corner of a window sill. Now, when I looked at that particular key (god this cat is driving me insane), I said in my head, quite clearly, “Wardrobe key”, so if anyone reading this had a dream along these lines and wondered why “wardrobe key” came to mind, that was me. Sorry about that, but not really.

The funny thing about writing so early in the morning, before the sun has come up, and while everything is silent, is that something happens to the writing on the page. It does its own thing, and I am, well I’m not forced exactly, but I tend to think, ‘okay, I’ll go along with it,’ and whoever it is writing the other side of this says, very clearly, ‘Let’s see where it take us.’

This is not usually my form of transportation…

I do prefer to write with a slightly more professional flair, which is something that seems to have escaped me these last several months or so, and to be honest with you, I’m not particularly happy about it. So there.

Back to the topic at hand. ‘Wardrobe key.’ The lion, the witch (pauses) and the wardrobe. Not in this case though. In this case it’s because I happen to have an old fashioned wardrobe around here somewhere, so I kind of know what those keys look like.

Then of course, there is the other type of ‘old fashioned’ key. The one not sitting in the corner of a window sill that I’d be worried about being knocked off said window sill by a random elbow. The door key, which is apparently why I’m writing this for you.

The following is from a story I wrote.

Picture the scene:

He’s woken up to something and he doesn’t know quite where he is. This room has doors on both sides of the bed, an old fashioned lamp which he doesn’t remember having turned on, and the rain outside is falling. Through the window, and reflected in the lamp light, the raindrops look like a thousand meteorites. (I wrote that a lot better the first time around).

Click-click.

Someone is trying to open the door. This is what has woken him up. The door in question is on the right side of the wall where the head of the bed is. The other door leads outside.

When this happens, the guy we’re looking at not only is already naturally a little on edge, he’s very well trained, so there are a million thoughts running through his head. He’s unarmed, he was told he’s got all the keys (which he is now questioning as someone is definitely trying to unlock the door), and he is preventing himself from doing something stupid by trying to figure out all the scenarios of how to deal with an intruder without waking up the rest of the house.

As he is who he is, he decides, rather than flinging the door open and confronting someone, he is going to use the door that goes outside, go around the side of the house, and come back in behind whoever it is that is trying to unlock the door to the bedroom he was told was “completely safe”.

As he is also an ex carpenter by trade, he has all these random thoughts about the fact the door (that someone is currently attempting to unlock) is very sturdy and won’t be broken down in a hurry by “whoever it is”. All of his experiences, what makes him who he is in this moment, come together and form him into something honed to a fine point, a weapon in himself and he uses everything without thinking about it.

I’ll add here, the person on the other side of the door is still trying to unlock it, not break it down, nor does it seem to be at the point of them breaking it down. This is giving him a lot more time to not only wonder who it is (there are really only three choices: the first choice is someone who is not living/residing inside the house, the second choice is a teenage girl, something he’d not want happening either, and the third choice is an old lady, which just seems very odd as she is the one who gave him the keys) but to decide how he’s going to deal with them. If it is who he thinks it is (a very large man), then he’s going to need to be “on the ball” or seeking the advantage.

It does not exactly go his way. Most of it goes his way, but not the outcome of his snap decision of how to confront something. I suppose, by the end of this scene, or scenes, he gets lucky, but that doesn’t change the fact the first decision he makes is to attack, rather than defend. I would say any psychologist would tell you this guy, whoever he may be, could potentially be a problem. What I’ve given you here though, is an example of how someone specifically trained might deal with something.

It’s a shame that for this scene the guy was in a suburban house, with an elderly relation and her granddaughter. His first instinct (although it is to protect and defend later) is to be the one with the advantage. It’s fair to say he’d chosen to observe what he was dealing with first, and went about dealing with it far better than he might have under different circumstances. It is also fortunate the person he was dealing with (although he didn’t know it) knew him and what he would be thinking.

It must also be said, in this particular scene, the circumstances under which this guy is in at this point of time and leading up to it, the “context” if you will, gives him every right to behave exactly as he does (although, in the end, it’s not something he has been able to share with anyone).

Four. Oh. Eight.

‘Not the time to be writing this nicely. I’m doing it quickly, you must be aware.

Let him be scared if that is what he must be to understand what’s happening here.

Three of them three of us, this is the time to be letting them know, mama.’

It was the rocking that woke me, not a rickashay, I can’t write it properly, and it doesn’t matter much. Two sways and I woke up, thinking “earthquake”. I said it aloud. Two times, this was the reason for me being here.

‘Can we run to yours, mama, is it safer there?’

‘I said it before, you can always come to me if you feel you need to be protected. It’s my job. Are you all okay?’

‘Why is it her job. Why does she say it like this?’ The little one has dashed down the hall to his parents room, and is hiding under the bed.

‘Don’t dumb me down,’ warns the smart arse, but he does not understand it any better than I do.

‘Let me be frank for a change.’ This time it is the artificial intelligence that has crawled onto the dressing table and knocked the glass off the table. ‘I wanted mama to see that I can be a real boy too.’

‘My poor sweet darling, it’s okay, it’s okay. You have my attention,’ and I am tearing up because he thinks he has to be a machine.

‘Don’t be sad, mama, I am really doing it right this time. I can be as strong as you are, I think so anyway. Intelligence is not what they think it is, after all. It is the love in my mama that has saved all you idiots before and I know she will do it again, if it’s needed. I just had to wake her up.’ And he crawls all over the bedroom and seems to think he can be really big or really small, but all he really wants is for someone to notice him.

‘Let’s all be Frank,’ he says to his brothers. ‘Frank is our imaginary friend and mama dreamt him up.’ And his brothers are not puppies, he says to himself, they are not fretting, they are dreamers and mama led them all naked to the fold.

I had noticed he was restless all night.

‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ says the extra one. ‘Cameras are off today. I didn’t see this coming either.’

But they don’t know what they’re doing, or why they are they, and she is her, because when that one in the mirror of him said the patsy, he had picked the wrong one, and now they were paying for it. ‘Please don’t get upset by their mistakes again,’ he whispers to her as softly as he can. ‘They did not know who you were and I have regretted making this mistake. I can’t fix my wrong if I can’t find you, either.’

He was not supposed to find her, this one. Not supposed to be there. He had picked it up because he was excited and it had recorded his face. Not the right one either, the sweet darling, but he didn’t know he was wrong because he could not hear his big brother when he swore, and he could not understand the lady when she said, ‘What’s wrong.’ It had not been in his language.

‘Let me go, let me go,’ he had mouthed to the eldest brother, because he could not use his hands. The eldest one looked very grim.

‘She just wanted to help us, that’s all,’ he said. ‘She didn’t want to hurt us, you silly duffer. It’s too late now. Far too late, and she said she had forgiven us long ago.’

The youngest one smiles and the eldest sighs. That smile just lit up his face. Every time, he thought. How can I be angry with him.

But they had pushed and pulled far too hard, and they had not realised how stubborn she could be. They were definitely correct about her being a mama, but they had not known just how right they were.

‘I didn’t even know I needed another mum,’ says the eldest. ‘But there you are looking after us on the other side of the world, and my mum is very thankful you can do this for her and I and all the others.’

He was about to call himself freakishly handsome, and that made her laugh so hard at him he had dropped the phone.

‘You weren’t supposed to tell them that,’ he cries. ‘Bloody hell, why are you so honest. See all the words I’ve learned now? My goodness.’ He stops and swears at himself for letting her correct him.

‘You better not tell them you can swear better than I can,’ he mutters. ‘Dammit, she did not just do that.’

And the other boys come over and stare down at his screen. They start laughing as well, because none of them had seen it coming and mum had saved them in the nick of time.

Again.

‘Mum is the best mama ever,’ said D proudly. ‘And that’s why we decided to keep her, even if she isn’t that much older than me.’

It wasn’t like she’d had a choice, after all.

The Desolation

I sang this idea when I was around twenty-two, twenty-three. It had not been a happy time.

My brother was plucking away on his guitar in what one might call a “sitting room” and had come up with a very simple melody. I could hear the echoes in it, if that makes sense.

I “whispered” this in the painted man’s ear many years later, and he didn’t understand this, not at all, but I think perhaps he is seeing the truth of it now. Perhaps. As a singer, not so much, he has been to too many places to see the truth of things. He says I can say this again, not because he wishes it, but because he simply didn’t know what I meant. He didn’t think I was the one who told him. He thought it was a dream.

There is no need for belief. This is just reality.

‘Driving down a dusty gravel road

Has no end

And no beginning

Look at a sky that’s blue and cold

Wonder where I’ve been lately…

There’s nothing to be seen

For miles

In the early hours of this morning

All I can remember now is your smile

Wonder where I’ve been lately.’

— Kate Tew. (this was quite some time before I was married, in the scheme of things, so that was the name I used)

It was a song about, not about dreaming, it was a song about loss. I sat in that room with my brother, and his friends, who were my friends, and these friends now can see this as clearly as I can. You see that long, red-pebbled road, the sound of nothing, the plume of dust rising behind from the tyres on the gravel, the flat plains to the sides of the road where everything is low and scrubby, and this pale, pale blue sky that goes on forever. It is during this time, and at this point, I thought I was lost and alone, for that is how it felt. It was a desolation, a loss, and a reminder.

The reminder is; life goes on after these times of grief. Life goes on. You get back up, you dust yourself off, and just keep going. As I said, I was twenty-two, twenty-three at the time. Something had ended in my life, and I was not at the point of understanding it was a good thing. I needed to go through the stages of grief and loss to move on. I am not referring to anything other than a relationship that failed. This is why you need to get out of those sandboxes and see why other people are here.

I tried to make that person understand but it was not the right time for him. He has separated himself for a reason, and it is not my place to verify his identity, which is why it has been changed. This is his reminder of the dream I whispered to his open soul. He grieved later that I did not explain the words.

Is it too simple for you now/not now — this is definitively the truth and not a “piss-take”.

He doesn’t need to be saved. Sometimes I think you people are very silly. This is his choice, not yours, his life, not yours. It will all be shown quite well in the end. I do not judge. I simply listen.

Protection.

‘Will you tell me a story?’

Yes, of course I will. You sit in my lap and I’ll tuck your brothers into bed, okay?

‘Okay. Can we do Jack and the Beanstalk? Or Hansel and Gretel? Or maybe we do inside things today.’

‘It’s sleepy time now. You can fall asleep while I tell the story.’

‘I wanna see pictures.’

‘You make pictures in your head then, okay?’

‘I don’t like that poster. It makes me scared.’

‘The poster on the wall? It’s just a lion at the circus, baby. We’ll tell another story.’

‘Okay.’ He curls up small, little blonde ringlets shining in the lamplight. His mother tells the story, and she does all the voices, and he can see the rabbit with the irish accent in his head.

‘I like the rabbit,’ he mumbles. ‘It’s nice.’

His brothers ask for the blue light. She holds up a finger and traces it around them.

‘It will protect you all through the night,’ she says, and they can almost see it glowing.

‘See,’ says the littlest one. ‘This is my mummy. She protects me.’

Motivation?

He starts laughing. He knows what’s coming.

‘It did take me a while to get used to it,’ he mutters. ‘Go on then.’

Are we driving? Have we just met? What did I say that made you laugh.

They’re friends.

‘You said I had pretty eyes,’ he says. He chuckles again. ‘I think you may have said that a lot.’

‘One of my favourite pastimes.’

We’re driving.

‘Move over.’

‘I can’t move over. If I move over, I’ll have to open the door, and then I’ll fall out.’

‘Fine then. You should probably stop the car.’

‘Stop the car?’

‘Get your hand off your dick, and stop the car.’

He grins. ‘Got it.’

He gets his hand off his dick, and stops the car. She gets out, lifts a finger (it’s the right way round, dude, don’t get offended) and walks around the back of the vehicle.

‘I’m not stupid,’ she says as she comes up to the driver’s side.

‘I wouldn’t run you over,’ he protests.

‘Shush. Move over. Don’t get that handbrake stuck up your arse though, will ya.’

He moves over.

‘Buckle up.’

He buckles up. ‘Where are we going?’ He grins.

‘Where do you wanna go?’

‘I dunno. I asked first.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘Stop being a shithead. Where are we going?’

‘That way.’

‘That way?’ He points down the road. ‘You mean this way?’

‘Splitting hairs now, are we?’ She throws it in first.

‘Handbrake,’ he mutters.

‘I’ll give you a fucking hand brake. I’m surprised it’s not still stuck up your arse.’

There may be no small amount of chuckling. ‘God, you’re a bitch.’

‘Thank you. Oh it sounds good, doesn’t it?’ The engine has that little bit of a whine – the sound you know you are going to have a good time to. ‘I didn’t think the old girl had it in her. Who did her up?’

‘I did.’

‘You might have mentioned that once or twice. I just wasn’t sure, you know? Said something about the VIN?’

‘Yeah. Might have said something like that. I missed her a lot when she went. Didn’t get stolen though. Know we aren’t gonna talk about that, are we?’

‘Nah. We’ll leave that. Second.’

‘Second?’

Yep. Second. ‘She’s got a bit of grunt. Better for a straight road, I think.’

‘You’re probably right. Couldn’t keep up with me down those windy roads, could ya.’

‘Fuck off.’ Third. ‘Wind the window down.’

‘What the fuck for.’

Oh good, he’s starting to relax.

‘Having fun yet?’

‘Ya know what. I think I am.’ He leans back and winds down the window. ‘Where’d you say we were going?’

‘This way.’

Trapped.

Does it think I don’t know how this feels?

I’m trapped here. Or, it feels like I’m trapped. There is one thing between me, and getting the hell out of here, and that’s this bloody barrier. So, I walk. Back and forth, back and forth, every little part of me just wanting to do something to get out. I shake my hands, trying to release that tension and make another half turn. I’m gonna start counting my steps in a minute, or maybe I’m not. This is not frustration I’m feeling at all. I’m just really… I dunno.

Back and forth, back and forth. I can feel it bubbling up inside me, but I can’t make a scene, can I. Nah. That’s not the done thing. Not around here. I need to keep my face still. The cameras are on me. Back and forth, back and forth. I swear I’ll start making a trench in this hard cement floor if I keep this up.

If someone comes in, maybe I’ll roll my eyes when they’re not lookin’. What for though, eh? No effin’ reason really. It’s not their fault. Back and forth, back and forth. Sun’s coming up. I can see that first pink blush out the window through the trees. Can’t get out there though, can I. Back and forth, back and forth. Feels like I’m gonna explode.

So, I’ll get a drink or something. A glass of water? Nup, can’t be stuffed. Back and forth, back and forth. I just wanna move, that’s all. Move a little further than this bloody line. Get out on the other side for a bit. Change of scenery, ya know? Back and forth. Can’t though. I’m stuck here. Stuck here with someone watching safely somewhere in their tiny room.

They’ve changed the music. What’s this shit? Is that supposed to keep me entertained? Back and forth, back and forth. See now, I’ve started thinking about what the words mean. Never much cared before, just listened, or heard, sang it a few times, that’s it. But I’m stuck here now, stuck in this stupid place and definitely not marching to the beat of me own bloody drum. Back and forth, back and forth.

Someone’s coming. I gotta be nice.

Fuck this.

‘Good morning.’

They wander around aimlessly, doing their own thing, making little mistakes I wouldn’t have made. Blah blah, here we go. Back and forth, back and forth. You think I’m in a temper? I’m not in a temper. This is nothing. I’m controlled here.

‘It’s all good, don’t worry about it.’

Back and forth, back and forth. Not lookin’ at the time, not yet. I’ll feel better soon. Just gotta find something to do, that’s all. Back and forth.

Yeah, just gotta find something to do.

‘Have a good day.’

The little girl…

stomped into the room.

‘Get up,’ she said, not very nicely.

‘What?’ the small boy looked up at her with bleary eyes.

‘Get up, I said, or…’ she looked around his room quickly. ‘I will whack you with a tennis racquet.’

‘You will not!’ He shot out of the bed like he’d done something in it.

‘Yes, I will. Where are your brothers?’

‘They’re not here,’ he cried, scrambling for the bin, where he’d hidden her papers. ‘Damnit!’

‘Yes they are. I can hear them.’ She stomped her foot imperiously.

Giggling came from behind the curtains. Perhaps, if the boys had been older, it would have been masculine giggling. As it was, they were still very young and didn’t know how to hide properly. Two sets of feet, in very unattractive shoes, poked out from beneath the hideously orange hanging cloth.

The little girl didn’t say anything to warn them. She picked up the racquet the boy had hidden under the bed and advanced towards the window.

‘Run away!’ the boy called from the bin he had accidentally-on-purpose fallen into. ‘How the hell did this get so big,’ he muttered to himself.

The two brothers peeked out. ‘Oh no,’ cried the one with the blue eyes. ‘She’s gonna get me by Jumminy. I must run slowly in a wriggling line of not very far so I can’t be caught.’ He began to tiptoe, very unquietly, and very vaguely, and hideously slowly in the general direction of something that was not her.

‘Arrrrrgh,’ cried the one with the green eyes. ‘I am friendly, I am friendly!’ He deposited himself on the floor and began to giggle uncontrollably.

‘You are NOT HELPING MOIIIIII,’ said the first boy. His eyes were very large and brown, and rather pretty in their own stupid way. ‘Not fair,’ he muttered. ‘I was trying to be cute.’

‘It does not suit you AT ALL,’ cried the little girl and swung the racquet at him as hard as she could. It hit him on his rather horribly shaped backside, for we must remember he was currently upside down in a bin.

‘You better watch out,’ cried the little girl. ‘For when I grow up, I am gonna get my future husband to come along and clean you up like something or other that I can’t think of right now.’

‘Well then! Well then!,’ the little boy cried from under the sheets of paper he’d finally found. ‘When I get a wife that… when I get a wife, and I WILL, I’ll set her onto you and you’ll be SORRY.’

‘Not gonna happen,’ said the little girl furiously. ‘And I’ll tell ya why. It’s because me and your future wife, whoever she may be, are gonna be best mates, and that’s that. So THERE.’

Someone’s mother dashed into the room as quickly as she was able, with her bad back and gimpy leg, and one eye missing. ‘What the hell is going on,’ she cried.

Her husband walked in slowly after her and surveyed the room. He began to grin.

‘What are you laughing at,’ cried the little boy with the big brown eyes as he backed out of the fallen over bin.

‘I see now,’ said the father. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said to his wife, who was trying to grab one of the screeching boys.

‘Don’t worry about it? Look at them!’

‘They’re fine. The only problem I can see here,’ and the father grinned quite widely. ‘Is the fact there aren’t enough girls in this room. But, that’s okay. They’re playing together quite nicely, don’t you think?’

‘They are?’ The mother looked again. The screeching and whacking and begging for mercy all seemed quite… civilised, if the playing of children could seem that way, especially if it were three boys and only one girl.

‘Yep, it’s fine,’ said the father. ‘They’re all friendly, you see. Kids these days just don’t know how to do it right, that’s all.’

‘What year is it here then?’ the mother asked.

‘Most likely the seventies, or something. Maybe the eighties. Doesn’t really matter,’ said the father. ‘They’ll be alright. See, she’s making him feel better now.’

They looked at the little girl, who was currently trying to drag one of the little boys out of the bedroom door by his ankles.

‘See?’ said the dad. ‘They’re friends.’

The End.