Jacking It In

I keep seeing fists flying and eyes penetrating mine. Eyebrows locked in a V. Not a neck in sight. Only foreheads and one shoulder after the next, pistoning forward, propelling the right arm, then the left. And then their meaty knuckles: emergent; airborne.

This isn’t really a thought that I’m having though; recalling last night means remembering how it felt to not think at all. Heart pumping, body charging, my eyes focused, but nothing going on behind them. The world was a blur of sounds and a dim awareness of my distance to another charging, pumping self. No idea if he was on my side or not. Didn't care. I guess I knew on some level that I’d find out soon enough if he wasn’t. I wasn't thinking; just acting on instinct, like the animal I am. Fight or flight. Winner or loser. Dead or alive.

Such a series of opposites seems so ghetto, so hardcore, as to almost be real. But it isn’t. I know in my soul that it isn’t. That simplistic reasoning’s all well and good when you’re a dumb dog, snarling with the pack in the moment of attack, but a human brain’s wired differently. And when it’s your skin and your limbs affected, you’re bound to reflect on it eventually, when the world’s silent once more.

God. I wonder if this is how the other guys are feeling.

I doubt it somehow.

Here and now, in my warm bed, under this thick duvet, I’m hidden in my sanctuary, my cave. Yesterday should be far enough away as to be abroad, but it isn’t. Fuck, it really isn’t. My cave’s recycled air mirrors my brain's recycled thoughts. I'm not going anywhere, so I might as well hear them out.

I do know why we did what we did. Of course I do. I know why we planned it for days and why I crouched down behind that bush, peering out through the prickles, enthralled by the imminent danger. It’s cos we like being violent. The element of surprise! Ha-HA! I threw myself at this one kid with a second-chin the size of a melon. Nah, not cos he’s blatantly a geek – give me some credit - just cos he was nearest to my bush! I mean, to me! Seriously though, I battered the poor kid. And it was so much fun, after he fell, I found myself another. Resisting a headlock from Gaz, this kid was bigger, stronger. I felt strangely satisfied when together, we brought him to tears. It was only after their reinforcements came that regret began to seep in, but only cos we started getting beat.

So, yeh. That’s it. I like violence...

Makes me feel well empty though, that sentence. Not only is the world a fucked up place, but I’m a fucked up individual within it. Great news…
“Knock knock…!” yells my Dad, as opposed to actually knocking. He thinks he’s so fucking funny.
“Silence..!” I sarcastically yell back.
Muffled by the sheets enveloping me, I hear the door open, hit the mess on the floor, and have to be forced the rest of the way.
“Get up Jack. It’s past twelve. Seriously. Your mum’ll be back in ten, so I want you downstairs in five. We wanna be there as soon as visiting time starts.”

God, I think: all these numbers. Leave it out. I’m not in school anymore.
I hear the door click shut. Alone with my thoughts again. And the knowledge that I’m totally fucked. And of course all the symbols of that fucked-ness. I peer out from under the duvet, at my belongings, the symbols of who I am. Not much to look at. A drum-kit gathering dust, footie trophies filling a shelf, hearkening back to that one time I bothered to try. Everything distressed like old denim, filtered through navy curtains screaming ‘I’m A Fucking Boy!’ to anyone who’ll listen.

Reluctantly, achingly, I rise from my warm cave and stretch upwards and outwards, fingertips almost touching both walls as I bring them down to my bare sides. I never strut around naked, but this feels almost liberating. ‘Nakedly, King Jack surveys his kingdom.’ Hm.

Not 'surveys' though. Explores. I feel like a new person today, shaken by revelations about myself. My old ratty bedroom looks like someone else’s. Weird. Or maybe I just never really looked.
I mean, what do these things really say about me? Are they clues to what I call my 'self'? To the reason why I’m so fucked up? Or are they just things I have because I am the way I am? It’s worth looking into I reckon; after last night, life doesn't seem that simple.

OK. Let’s start with the wardrobe. Finding number one: I dress like a chav. No surprises there... Rifling through, it's all bright white and clean black, with flashes of neon orange and lime goo green. Trainers that resemble marshmallows on crack. Labels, everywhere. I obviously care a lot about what other people think of me. Gotta keep up with the peers. Feel the pressure? Yeh, thought so. I’d rather stay naked from now on, cheers. Better cold and nude than a numpty in a day-glo tracksuit!

So what’s next? Ah right - the drum-kit I spent 6 months persuading my parents to buy me, that I've played about 6 times since. Usually when trying to piss off said parents. Don’t even know where the drumsticks are. I tap on the snare and it rattles back at me. It’s as angry at me as I am at myself. I turn my back on it.

Half-way up the far wall, dog-eared and dilapidated, it’s that picture I tore from Zoo last year. Danielle Lloyd. Leaves fuck all to the imagination. She’s a pretty girl under all that make-up, you can tell. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve wanked off to her more than once. But it’s weird, cos every time, I’ve felt empty afterwards. My thoughts've turned ugly and sexist. I always hate women after I wank though. Must be cos I can’t have any of ‘em. Either that or there's something seriously wrong with me.

On the right of the poster, a shelf carries the dozen dusty trophies I won over that particularly motivated season last year, not acknowledged since. I think my dad made that shelf himself. Or maybe he just put it up. Whatever. I look at its contents now and all I can think about is how much you want your team to win almost as much as you want the other team to lose.

I go over to the curtains, draw one back a bit. Not enough for the neighbours to catch a glimpse of my tackle, but enough to shine some light on this mess. And there sits my ashtray in the middle of the window-sill. Fag-butts sticking their bums in the air like ducks diving for food. It stinks, and I hack out a cough in response. The curtain gets closed quick-smart and the room sinks back into murk.
So much for an attack of clarity.

But then it hits me. Attack. The blade... That ultimate symbol of my own depravity, of my own violence and root-less rage. It’s still sat there, amongst my socks. It must be. I don’t wanna be reminded of its weirdly sexual silver face, but I have to check it now, just to stop worrying. God, if my parents ever found it, they’d kill me. And I’m already ashamed enough for all of us.

I open the right-hand drawer of my wardrobe slowly, bent down, shadowing it cos I really don’t want to see. I lift up a knotted pile of socks, feeling for its hard metallic sheen. It's there. Thank fuck.

“Jack?” he knocks for real this time – a quick tap, meaning impending entry, “You up yet?”
I slam the drawer shut and leap back into bed in the time it takes him to swing the door open.
“Right. Get up!” he orders, as if his words had any chance of being obeyed, “I've had just about enough of this”. I hear him stomp over to my window and rattle the curtain rings as he draws the sunlight in. Even deep in my cave, I notice the upgrade in radiance. “Jack. Seriously. I want you up and dressed in one minute.” He settles gently on the side of the bed. “On a day like this, you need to man up”. His voice becomes gentle, loving. “We know this is hard on you, but you have to go. The doctors are trying their hardest. I'm sure he'll be fine. But you need to go see him now. Just in case.” He stands up and marches from the room. Job done, in his head at least.

In my head, I'm consciously blocking him out. I have imaginary fingers lodged in my ears. I feel bad enough already, cheers.

Peering back out from under the duvet, I survey my kingdom once again. The sunlight's having this strange effect on the essence of my belongings. What seemed doomed mere minutes ago now seems alive. A shower of dust particles glimmer in the summer sun, drifting towards me as if the process of refraction's pushing them my way. This shift in intensity's transformed my room's whole character.

I lay my head back on the pillow. Reflect. Stare at the ceiling in a daze of cranial connections forming. The first smile of the day's born. What do the things I own say about me? Well, it depends on your perspective. And the intensity of your gaze.

Exhibit A: my drumstick-less drum kit. It doesn't just represent how lazy and ungrateful I am. I begged for it in the first place cos it's all about energy. Creativity. The companionship of a band. Just wanting to express myself can't be TOO awful.

My eyes wander to the poster of Danielle. Exhibit B-cup. That pure hate it always leaves me with – could there be a deeper meaning to it than me just being a total bastard? Well... It represents love, doesn't it? Or the potential for it at least. It may be unrealistic and sexist and wrong, but it only makes me hate the girl because I want intimacy, not fantasy. And this is all I can get... especially when I look like a walking asbo!

Right. So what's Exhibit C? My trophies? Maybe I was just being negative earlier. Football's not only about wanting the other team to lose. It's also about being part of a crowd in the stands. Support; loyalty; love even. The only time I've ever seen a grown man cry's at a match. That's gotta say something.

The ashtray (exhibit D) just means I'm an unhealthy fucker, no hidden meanings there. And the knife (exhibit Eeeeeee!). Fuck. Not funny Jack. You are SO not funny. Focus. Right, the knife. My gaze strays to the drawer it's hidden in. This one's the bitch. Because maybe, even though it's no good, never could be, not to anyone with half a brain anyway, maybe, just maybe, there's a damn good reason why it's there.

Just then, my dad comes flying in, tossing the door aside with a thwack. We lock eyes. He looks mad, but I look sad. It just straight out melts him. He stops mid-stride and lets the tension flow out with an audible exhale.
“Dad”, I say, quieter than I mean to. He doesn't reply. I take that as a good sign. “The fight. Last night...”
“It's OK. It's fine!” he interrupts, before turning on his heels and marching out.

It's kinda funny really, how sometimes we can't just stand up and confront things. My dad's probably scared I'll get sent to prison. Of losing both sons. When I came in last night, covered in someone else's blood, he turned the other way. Told me to get cleaned up before mum saw. Pretty fucked up, but I can see his point still.

And he was right about one thing. Time to man up.

If I'm brutally honest with myself, the reason I took that knife last night, the one wrestled from me and used against Gaz, was cos I wanted to be safe, but still be involved. Have my cake and eat it, and all that. I was scared that they'd have blades, so I brought one. Made total sense at the time. I didn't want to die. But add that reason to the reality of fights being genuinely exciting, because you''re bored, as if you're waiting for that bus that's never gonna come, stuck in a society that rejected you a long time ago, and you're bound to get a bad mix. Worse so when you're still sixteen, and skinny enough to be overpowered. Worse still when your twin brother's standing right next to you.

I definitely owe it to Gaz to go see him, no matter how scared I am or how much I hate myself right now. Even if he tells on me... after all, he was the one who tried to persuade me not to take it, who only went along to watch my back. The one who saw me pick up the weapon used against him, wipe his red blood off, and scarper. Only looking after myself. Yet again.

But maybe he'll understand. Maybe he'll look in my eyes and see it from a different perspective. See how sorry I am. How I get it now. Hell, he might even forgive me. And then everything'll be alright.

One thing's for certain though. I'm not fucking going dressed like a chav! I get out of bed with a jump, pull on my dressing-gown, and head for someone else's room.