Electrical Tension

It’s one of those sunny June days that mark the summer holiday’s approach. Tiny ants crawl lazily over loose gravel, as if searching for an unoccupied place to set up invisible deckchairs; I place my feet carefully so as not to tread on any.

 

My mother, little sister and I round the corner onto the street which, to me, marks a border between ‘near Gran’s house’ and ‘near home’. The pub car park on the opposite side of the street, where wing mirrors carelessly deflect winks of white, is unusually abandoned. My grandparents don’t go to this pub even on their Sunday nights out because it’s “full of feckin’ druggies.”

 

Muffled conversation, and the crack of pool cues connecting, filters through the darkened doorway out into the brightness, but I hear nothing in the laughter that distinguishes the “feckin’ druggies” from people in other pubs.

The high brick wall on my left disturbs me; barbed wire and half a metre of electrified fencing trim the top, like the bunched-up creases that fringe the top of curtains.

What goes on behind this sinister barrier is too vague for me to feel comfortable in such close proximity. I’ve seen signs fixed onto large garage doors inside, proclaiming ‘DANGER – HIGH VOLTAGE’. The word ‘generator’ is not yet part of my vocabulary, but I detect a low humming sound whenever I pass, which I associate with machinery. Only occasionally do the shouts of men at work come from behind the wall; maybe I should feel happy that great jobs like this exist, where people can enjoy so many days off - but I don’t.

I wonder uneasily what goes on when there are no people to stand guard over whatever evil lurks within.

 

It’s stupid, this irrational unease. But I know that whenever a football goes astray, flying carelessly over those cruel spirals, it’s for keeps. No kid would venture into that High Voltage Yard after it, even if they were able to scale the sheer brick surface.

 

“Stop dragging your feet,” snaps Mum.

 

It’s ok, because I know the sun beating down can make some people bad-tempered. It makes me sluggish; I probably was dragging my feet.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“How many people are coming to your party?”

 

I’ll be ten in August. Summer to me means my birthday, but I know that for most kids in my class, August means going away on holiday. Since I wouldn’t see some people in the time between school finishing and my birthday, it made sense to give out the invitations two months in advance. I proudly handed them around the classroom two days ago.

 

“I dunno yet.”

  

“Why are you so f*****g stupid?”

 

“I dunno.”

 

Smack around the head. It doesn’t hurt much, but the sun must have softened my defences like cheap rubber toys, because the second one does. She grabs my shoulders and forces me against the High Voltage Wall; my head rebounds off it, and I feel the skin around my elbows ripping off in protest at the rough friction. As her fist approaches to lay into me, I become very aware of the fact that it’s summer and I’m wearing shorts; if the skin at the back of my legs receives the same treatment as my elbows have, any walking I do in the next two weeks will be the opposite of fun. Instinctively bending them a little, I take the final hits and silently praise my instincts as my jutting ankle bones lightly scrape against the bricks.

 

Stunned that the summer sun, now blinding me, would allow this to occur, I watch my mother and sister walking away from me down the street.

 

Wasn’t this only supposed to happen inside, at home?

 

I hurriedly scan the street for kids playing, women having conspiratorial f**s at garden gates, couples heading for the pub. There’s no one around.

 

A slight prick of anger - why wasn’t anyone there to stop it, or to at least exchange an understanding glance with me afterwards - is quickly replaced with relief: no witnesses to my shame.

 

Author's Note

Let me know what you think of this. If you've read the other chapter, does the style match or has it changed [I wrote this section when I was 16, and the other one a few months ago, so they're probably mismatched]. Thanks for reading.

Reviews

[Emily B]

Barbed wire and blows. It happens just that quick, too. I think that that place she went away to . . . with sunshine and blue skies. . . probably infuriated the mother more. That hideway escape hatch she can't get to . . .

I cringed when the narrator thought ahead to the painful scabs that rough handling of knees on bricks would cause. That is a child practised in brutality.

[F. Nazarov]

Haven't read the other section, so have set my mind on reading it.
WAIT, I think I have read the other section, and I don't think the styles changed very much.
It's just fine I assure you.
Summer means my birthday too, so suppose thats why
I selfishly look forward to it.
As a child, my first instinct was to actually shield my face,
I just don't like being hit in my face.
Public beatings, mortifying for a child.
There is always that internal conflict of why didn't anyone
help, but the relief of at least no one I know can hold that against me.
I would actually be quite pissed when my sisters would witness
and do nothing it's like a little help if you don't mind.

but I hear nothing in the laughter that distinguishes the "feckin' druggies" from people in other pubs.

I like that line, it's interesting. The only difference is I suppose druggies have more fun =].
Overall, I actually liked this piece a lot. I'll end my ramble here, I'm listening to music
and my mind keeps straying from what I'm trying to do here =].

[L.V. Ana]

This piece seems different than the other one, though that might just have to do with the fact that there's more introspection and the conversation is with someone of a very different social standing in comparison to the main character (meaning, his mother instead of his friend). It's interesting getting to see the other side of the equation...partially explains why the friend's parents think the main character is going to commit suicide, and partially explains the bit about his mother being one of the things that makes him feel less intelligent (assuming I'm remembering correctly...when I'm tired my memory fails).

I like this. I want to read more.