Above the Valley

 It’s strange how some memories stick out in the mind. They become solid, formative, immovable. Most memories are fleeting. Often weeks, months, years can pass by, each almost indistinguishable from the last – perhaps you remember your first time on a plane, or the first time you saw your dad cry. But these memories stick out as anomalies in the foggy soup of our past.

Then something can happen that is so at odds with what surrounds it, it becomes almost like a fixed point in time. It becomes so much a part of who you are, it seems impossible that there was a time before. It’s fascinating, then, how clear and crisp some of these memories can become; and how innocuous they can seem at the time.

I have one such memory that stands out further than anything else, one that I relive in such a way that each minute feels like an hour.

The sun streams through tattered blinds. Motes of dust hang in the golden glow, as if suspended in thick liquid. Tree branches cast sharp shadows on the walls. From here, you can see all the way across the valley, across the big green fields to the forest on the other side. There’s a road in the distance but nobody really uses it. Up here, we could be the only people left in the world.

It’s late afternoon and the day has been hot. As the sun dips towards the hill, a slight breeze kicks up, cooling the sweat on the back of my neck. It will be dinnertime soon, but for now, it’s one of those summer afternoons that seems it might last forever, so long as we don’t look too close.

We’ve been here all day, just the four of us. Just like we were yesterday, and the day before that. It should be an unremarkable day; one that I would now look back on and struggle to differentiate from all those around it. But that’s not how this day happens, no matter how much I might wish it.

We’ve spent most of the afternoon lazing in the corners of the little treehouse, it’s been too hot to do anything. I’m partway through The Hobbit, a book I have never since been able to bring myself to finish. The others doze, or read.

Charlie has a small pile of rocks beside him that he brings up the tree to throw at squirrels and birds. I’m not sure why he’s here, if I’m honest. But also, I’m barely friends with this group, so I keep my quiet. I’m barely friends with anyone.

It’s like I bring some smell with me wherever I go. The only reason I’m even here is because it’s my treehouse. For the most part, the other two ignore me, but Charlie seems personally offended by my continued existence.

As the sun continues to set and the temperature goes down, the others become more restless. I’m happy just reading my book without sweating, but Charlie, in particular, is frustrated. The weather has made him irritable and he leans out the rough-cut window, pelting pebbles at anything that moves. The wildlife has long since learned that this little patch of nature is no longer for them, and he quickly finds himself bored.

This is usually when I find myself getting a little nervous. It’s at this point that Charlie usually starts casting about, looking for something to amuse himself, and his eyes inevitably fall onto me.

Typically, I’ve avoided inviting him but he’s a bit of a package deal; Ben and Liam are the closest thing I have to friends, so I have to deal with their cousin. They will sometimes say something, if he goes too far, but it’s rare for him to listen.

A pebble whizzes through the window by my head, ricocheting off a branch outside. I try to ignore him; if he doesn’t get a reaction, he might get bored, right? That was always Mum’s advice.

It’s terrible advice though. Assholes have parents. The parents of assholes don’t always know they’re raising assholes. They give the exact same advice to their little asshole kids that I received. It gives them resilience, encourages them to push you that little bit harder. It makes it all the more satisfying when you do eventually crack.

I nestle further down into the cushions as another pebble shoots past. The treehouse isn’t that big; he’s missing on purpose, but that won’t last long. I chance a furtive glance towards the other two, but they’re watching on with a muted interest. They’ll be no help today.

The next rock stings my thumb. I drop my book and gasp a little, turning towards Charlie. He’s sitting upright, staring straight at me, his jaw jutting out as he rolls more stones between his fingers. Later in life, I will meet other people like Charlie. The same propensity for casual violence, the same disregard for people around them. Almost every single one of them winds up bouncing from job to job, isolated from society, getting more and more angry. Some of them end up in prison. I don’t know any of this yet though, and all I see here and now is Charlie’s arrogance, silhouetted against the setting sun.

‘What?’ he demands.

‘Nothing.’

‘Bullshit. You’re staring at me.’ Another rock is thrown at me, this time hitting my ankle. The other two watch on as the tension builds. This won’t blow over by itself. My breath quickens, my lungs sucking in greedy gulps of oxygen. I grab the rock that hit my ankle and throw it straight at Charlie as hard as I can. It cracks him square on the nose and blood flows freely. He’s stunned for a moment, but that won’t last long. Dread fills my belly as I realise what I’ve done. Charlie won’t just take that knock and let me go. No, he’s going to beat me for that. He’s struggling to his feet now, and I know I have to hit him before he hits me. He’s bigger than me, my only chance is to hit first, right?

I scramble to stand up as quick as I can and throw myself towards him. He’s still holding his face, staring at me through watering eyes. This is one of those moments that seem to stretch for an age: I can feel the rough timber beneath my bare feet as I kick off against it, I can see the other two unfurling themselves to help –but help who, I don’t know. I can even smell the summer breeze, promising a storm yet-to-come. All of these things I process as I take two short steps and drop my shoulder square into Charlie’s chest.

I only meant to knock the wind out of him, maybe throw a few punches. Enough that he might leave me alone. My dad had always said that bullies don’t like it when you stand up to them. This is the advice still rattling around my head as Charlie’s silhouette blocks out the setting sun, a black shadow with a golden-red glow as it passes clean through the window.

There’s a brief quiet, broken only by the sounds of twigs snapping. He does not cry out as he falls, perhaps too shocked. The treehouse, built in the canopy of a great oak, is almost unreasonably tall. Peering through the window, I can see Charlie’s limbs outstretched, as if he’d tried to fly. The unnatural way in which they twist is proof enough that he could not.

This should have been a day that sunk into the obscurity of a long, hot summer. Instead, it divides my life. There’s the time before, and the time after but, more than anything, there’s the time during. What could I have done differently? What if I’d been stronger, not allowed a certified asshole into my treehouse? What if I’d not reacted to the stones thrown my way? What if I’d reacted on any other day, to the stones thrown at birds, to the name-calling, the teasing, the occasional beatings? What if Charlie had been standing slightly to the side, his back hitting the wall instead of open air? What if I’d not secretly, quietly, possibly, wished him dead?

What if, what if.

It doesn’t help.

This is what is.