Black and blue and yellow and green

“Grow up.” My father says when I come home with stuffed toys. 

“Grow up.” My mother says when I refuse to go to school. 

“Grow up.” My friends say when I tell them I’m tired, tired of everything, tired of nothing. 

I wish I could grow up. I want to grow up to be a tall strong man who is always invited out for drinks with his friends but often has to decline with a booming laugh because his wife and three kids are at home. I want to grow up to be a man who will be applauded and cheered when he gets promoted. 

I want to be someone brave and true to himself, someone who has gotten out of this stage of his life, someone who won’t be violated by others because he is so weak. 

But I can’t grow up. I’m still a child. I’m still a little pathetic child who sees his blue eyes and curving smirk when I try to sleep. I can feel his hand coming closer and closer towards me, see the scar on the dorsal side of his hand. 

That is the reason why I’m even in this stupid mess to begin with. That stupid confounded scar. The new boy came to school, head bowed, shuffling nervously, unsure which clique to go up to. 

And I laughed at him. I saw his scar and walked up to him and laughed. Who does that?

I still remember it. My friends were whispering about a new kid and I was trying to scope him out. With his back hunched, he looked like a pathetic weasel of a kid. Someone who longed to be accepted. A perfect scapegoat. 

I walked up to him. “Hey new kid, what’s your name?”

He looked at me with blank eyes. Blue eyes. “Charles.”

I held out a fist for a fist bump. That was possibly the first time he smiled. He held his fist out too. I saw the scar then, a red jagged line that looked raw and painful. 

And I laughed. Immediately his face contorted into a scowl and he jammed his hand into his pocket, stalking off. 

I wish I had already grown up back then. I wish I had the maturity to hold back my laughter for just a deep cut. Was that all it came down to? A cut. A scar. An imprint on your soul. 

Karma’s a bitch. He repaid the favour happily. Twofold. Instead of just laughing at me, he imprinted it all over my body. Like a canvas for him to riddle with black and blue and yellow and green. 

Sometimes I want to ask for help. But I go into my father’s office and poke my head in, hoping for some comfort and counsel. 

“Dad, do you have a second?” I whisper. 

He blinks distractedly. “I’m a little busy now Dave. Can it wait?”

When it comes down to it, I guess his work is more important than I am. Not that I’m surprised. 

Second best. Least loved. Why didn’t anyone even question why I was acting so weird? Why didn’t anyone see the signs?

Instead, all I get is “Grow up.” As if I wouldn’t love to. But if I knew how to, all of this would have been long avoided. 

I’m so tired. Tired of everything and tired of nothing. Tired of the world and school. Tired of being unable to grow up to defend myself. 

Whatever I do, nobody can understand it. Of course I’m buying stuffed toys! They’re the only things that don’t judge, that can absorb tears very well. Why would I want to go to school? It’s the place where I’m hit and pummeled and laughed at. All the good memories I had of laughter and fun have been wiped over, washed out. Gone. 

I hate my body now. I hate showering. I see my thin frame in the mirror, see my ribs protruding from my skin. I see black and blue and yellow and green. Bruises littering my entire body. On my legs and on my back; on my chest and on my hands. 

I can see one fresh one he made the other day. It’s on my wrist, a dark deep blue circle made from squeezing too tightly. I wonder what will happen if my sleeve pulls up and it is seen. Will they think I’m just clumsy? Perhaps I’m being abused?

Nobody ever thinks of assault from a fellow classmate. 

I strip myself as usual in the shower, trying not to look at the mirror. Was I really a tall, strong boy a few months ago? It doesn’t seem like it. It feels like I’ve always been this way. 

I turn the water on much hotter than I normally like it. But it feels good today, pounding my back soothingly. Not like a gentle caress. I’m not sure if I can even feel gentleness and sweetness anymore. I need something stronger, something tougher to comfort me. 

My legs feel like they are going to collapse from under me. But I don’t want to leave. This is nice, by myself, with my thoughts and the soothing water on me. 

I sit down on the floor and close my eyes. It feels so good, like I can finally relax and just be myself. 

Another great thing about water is that it also doesn’t judge. 

I hear a call from my father. How long has it been? He’s probably going to chew me out for wasting water. I can already hear his lecture, talking about how there are kids in some places with no water at all and here I was wasting it like it was free. 

“David! David! Come down and meet my boss! He’s brought his son with him, I think you go to the same school? His name is Charles!”

I freeze, icy dread running through me and I can’t feel the water anymore. A rushing sound fills my ears. No, no! He’s already spoiled school for me, he can’t spoil my home too!

My father calls for me again. I can hear his footsteps pounding the stairs. Any second now, he’s going to open the door and burst through and see how weak I am. 

The thuds are coming closer. I try to stand up, to turn off the water but I can’t. My legs are wooden and stiff, my hands cold and clammy. 

This can’t be happening. 

I can practically see the doorknob turning, can hear my father’s shocked gasp. He rushes to my side and turns the water off and cradles my pathetic thin body. 

“My god Dave, what happened?”

I burst into tears.