Outcast

As I approached the gate I glanced up at the towering, grey, building. A dark mass of clouds was beginning to swirl overhead. My eyes traced nervously over the letters engraved into the stone slab above the entrance, darting in all directions. The letters formed the familiar words, “Lomont High School”. They jeered down at me, daring me to come closer. I read the sign over and over again, until the name echoed in my mind and the sound resembled the hushed noise generated by a small bee. A sudden, warm, prickly feeling swept over me. It continued to linger in my chest, restricting my breathing and causing my heart to beat faster. I commenced my journey towards the school at a brisk pace, isolated and unrenowned to the blurred faces of surrounding students. They were standing in tightly woven groups, deep in conversation, apparently untroubled by the menacing dark mist that was nearly upon them.

I observed a large collection of grade ten students, crowded around the bottom of the stairs leading up to the building. A boisterous schoolboy, was waving his arms around frantically, describing some huge feat. Onlookers were keen to listen to him recount his daring tale and took in every word. The girl beside him gasped and clutched at his hand, as the boy made a big swooping movement with his arm. That would have been me and Christina Menefee last year. We were so happy together. Then the stupid bitch just dumped me. The buzzing grew louder and I felt completely separated from the muffled giggles and excited chitchat emitted from pupils. My chest swelled, as the feeling intensified. A burning lump had concealed itself beneath the flap of my jacket. I could feel it melting through the fabric, yearning to be discovered. I pushed past the group of students, rushed down the hall and ducked into the second classroom on my right. The occupants turned to stare at me, startled by my abrupt entrance. I glimpsed Chris’s shocked expression and immediately sought to relieve myself of the burning lump. I raised my hand revealing a white, sweaty palm and lunged into my jacket, grasping the warm object. BANG! BANG!

Everything went black. The irritable buzzing sound had stopped. I was plummeting, falling down down…I could hear people shouting and screaming in the distance, their voices became clearer as I neared my destination. A man was yelling abuse, uncontrollably, his speech was slurred, I guess he had had too much to drink.

“Getr up, look at mee, I’m s’sorry!” the man announced reproachfully.

The quivering voice of a woman responded with an exasperated sigh. There was a soft thud and I gripped the cushiony surface beneath me and opened my eyes, breaking the crusted barrier that had imprisoned them. I was awake and safe in the comfort of my own bed. I scanned over the few items and hangings adorning my room. A jacket lay slumped on the floor, protruding from a heap of dirty washing. Trembling, I jumped out of bed and scooped up the pile of clothes, singling out the jacket, the very same jacket I had envisaged myself wearing moments ago. It hung innocently in my hand and displayed no signs of having participated in the recent night’s sinister happening. There was another clamour outside. I tossed the jacket aside, allowing it to form it's own mound on the carpet and preceded out the door to investigate the disturbance.

Mum was cowering under the dining table, her face was stained with tears and composed mainly of a blotchy, red colour, apart from the fresh, blue bulge she now exhibited below her left eye. When I presented myself in the room she attempted to disguise her face and clapped her hands over the swelling. Furniture was askew, the front door had been forced off its hinges and shards of glass from broken bottles containing alcoholic beverages littered the area. Adjacent the table was the collapsed mass that defined Dad. He reeked of cigarettes, booze and urine. His face was elongated and it bore permanent lines from a constant lack of sleep. I kneeled beside him and rolled his sad, limp figure onto his side. He coughed and splattered up mouthfuls of vomit, showering me in chunks of partially digested food.

“Mum, I need some towels and a bucket!” I exclaimed quickly, through a blocked

nose, desperately trying to avoid the putrid smell. There was no answer.

I turned in the direction of the table. Mum was now sitting upright, her arms outstretched, aiming a gun at the motionless body. There were no bullets in the chamber. It was just going to be another one of mum’s feeble attempts to defend herself. Why couldn’t she stand up to dad, talk to him and sort things out? Poor Dad, he’d been depressed ever since he and mum separated. Why had she so recklessly disregarded him, without even an explanation? He was a dedicated father and loving husband. He didn’t even drink much then. Everybody wanted to be Dad’s friend. He was a big bloke, always smiling and knew how to make people feel welcome. It was the same with me and Christina. Women are all senseless bitches. Mum deserved what she got. It was all her fault. I seized the gun out of her grip, it felt warm and hummed approvingly of my possession. I caressed the handle, stroking it gently with my forefinger, then placed it delicately on the table.

A rough, murmur arose from the floor. Dad shuddered, uneasily and hurled himself off the ground. His wild countenance had been replaced by a look of total dejection. He bowed his head, as the last of his pride drained down his leg with an excretion of pale, yellow liquid and exited the house. I followed in his wake and watched him stumble, idly out of sight. It was the first time he had inflicted physical damage on Mum. He had always lectured me about not resorting to violence in an argument and yet I found myself inspired by the acts committed by this new dad. He was powerful. People listened to him and I bet he’d never been called “gutless”, when he was at school. The sun was beginning to rise. It glowed a brilliant red, illuminating the rooftops of residents at the opposite end of the street. I stood on the lawn and basked in its red glow. Soon people would be heading off to work and school. I imagined myself filing through the front gate of Lomont High School, crammed against struggling bodies of students, invisible to their overbearing eyes. I raced inside and changed for the day’s events, grabbed my bag and then pulled on my jacket, secretly stuffing the gun into one of the inside pockets.

“Do you want some money for lunch?” asked Mum.

Mum emerged from her room, applying the finishing touches of foundation over her bruise. I spun around inquisitively. Had she seen me take the gun? Why was she acting like nothing had happened? I felt hot and tingly. Her words were drowned out by the unexpected return of the low whirring resonate…