Excerpt no.2 from 5* Star Prison: Warrior Crypto Poet @nickythecat

in #writing5 years ago

My days were filled with confusion as I followed the other kids around trying to ‘fit in’. The bus journeys which marked the start and end of each day were particularly disheartening – I was bullied by two older brothers who, unfortunately lived nearby can could enjoy the full length of the trip to throw things, shout things and hit me from the seats behind. The driver and others did nothing. I earned scores of minus 20 or more in every single test that involved French. To this day I am incredulous that any teacher could possibly award a negative grade instead of simply 0. Friends were few and far between and I sought comfort in television programs of cartoons and animated ninjas, milk chocolate drinks and music. The nights were regularly punctuated by the sound of heated arguments downstairs – my father had begun to lose control over his drinking and two to three bottles of wine a day with brandy in the evening became the norm.
In retrospect I think it was the isolation that got to him. What can been conceived as a liberation from the lethargy of London without a job, the dream of fresh French countryside air bringing inspiration and ‘joie de vivre’ had metamorphosed into an open prison in a foreign land filled with regrets. Sometimes he would play a few shots of golf on the lawn out front or spend some time by the pool. I would like to think if ever I had found myself in his shoes, I would have sought counsel from my wife and spent more time getting to know my son.
For my part, the countryside offered a great deal of welcome distractions. I took the fantasy ninja concept outdoors with me and climbed trees, roamed dry dank river beds, explored abandoned farmer’s huts and outbuildings. My cat ‘Brok’ was my faithful companion throughout these adventures – I had nurtured back to health as a tiny kitten. He was always far too adventurous for his own good and had wandered out beyond the main house into a large barn (which was never used). I searched for many hours until, purely be chance, I heard the very faintest weak noises from under some heavy machinery of some description. Crawling underneath, I rescued him and carried him to my room where I refused to leave him until he recovered. Singing songs to him and feeding him milk and scraps was the focus of the following few days.
Brok grew strong and tough. His paws were very large with sharp claws and his tail was crooked. His ears were torn and his eyes were large and confident. He would disappear for days at a time and return with the trophies of his hunt: squirrels, hares, lizards and even snakes. These entrails, extremities and heads would be left as sacrificial offerings at the foot of the front door much to the disgust of father and my amusement and pride. One day, I fell badly ill from a mystery fever – I can recall hallucinating small troll-like men running up the bedclothes with cruel expressions and sharp knives, intend on doing me damage. Brok stayed with me as I shivered and slept – his food had to be brought to him. That was loyalty, dedication and love.
Behind the second house that we moved to in France was a prominent hill with a small cliff. A winding overgrown path ran all the way up to the top and my imagination would run away with it. As I climbed it frequently and the smell from wild flowers grew ever more intoxicating and the sound of silence ever louder, my mind was filled with notions of imaginary hidden creatures and the sense of exploring unknown territory. Brok would often accompany me on such trips and make his own discoveries as we ventured forth in the undergrowth. I would often catch and collect exotic insect species such as huge grasshoppers and the occasional praying mantis. This terrain was ripe for adventure and ideal for a boy of my age to pretend to be anything from a knight to a soldier.
Gradually, with significant support from my mother, I began to develop my ability in French and the first day when I achieved a positive grade, (2/20), there was a small party at my house. The exclusion, humiliation and sense of helplessness fueled my desire to compete. Week by week my grades improved and eventually I was beating the other kids in their own language and taking pride and pleasure in doing so. I had a crush on the two other smartest kids in the class: ‘Martine’ and Julie’ – daughters of rich bourgeois parents unlike the rural farming majority. We had a racist and violent math teacher who would explode into fits of rage and throw chalk at children who failed to answer correctly (or were simply too scared to answer at all).
Months and years passed and I became part of the village life. Many afternoons and weekends were spent playing tennis, kayaking and potholing, climbing and moping around the village hall trying out new skateboarding tricks. My primary pastime and skill was shooting. Hundreds of hours were spent down in a musty cellar beneath the town hall where I was taught the methodology, discipline and breathing for precision target shooting. The individual nature of the sport and singularity of focus suited my character well and became an exceptional shot. A 22. Rifle with a silencer was gifted to me by a Dutchman one night over dinner with my parents. I reflect now that this was an odd gift for an 11 or 12 year old boy; however, I was delighted at the time. My parents kept it under lock and key obviously unless I had express permission to use it. One day my father was fed up with the attrition of cherries in our row of cherry trees by fat jays and, having himself failed to hit them, asked me to have a pop. Without thinking I loaded the weapon, went down to one knee and took aim just off from the nearest tree. A happy jay took flight and I tracked it and fired. The jay fell and was not dead. Rather, it started flapping helplessly and I felt tears wet my cheeks. Nonetheless, I loaded another round, walked up to it and shot it close range. That was a learning experience.

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