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Sunday, 9 August 2015
Was I Made, Or Am I Just A Different Demon?
VICTIM OR MONSTER?
I gently opened the bedroom door trying desperately not to startle her. Judging by the sweetness of her smile, the world of dreams had clearly swept her away, and she looked utterly at peace.
I was overcome by the sheer beauty of the sleeping goddess, her incredibly long auburn hair flowing over the brilliant white pillow onto the bed
The warmth of her body beckoned me; I longed to seek comfort from the howling wind vibrating the window; a constant reminder that winter had not yet passed.
The heat from the sun seemed a far distant memory as I shivered, standing naked on the ice cold floor, convinced as I gazed down at her sleeping image that she could provide all I needed to survive.
I slipped beneath the billowy white duvet, wrapping my arms around her slender body; I could feel her heart beat as I pressed my chest against hers. Would my intrusion frighten her?
Leaning forward, I placed a delicate kiss on her cheek. Her eyes opened, the smile broadening on her lovely face as she welcomed me into her arms and I felt safe.
We kissed passionately as she drew me ever deeper into her warm embrace, igniting a fire within me when I realised that I was in love, captured and bound by a spiritual connection which had until this moment eluded me.
Without thinking I whispered the words, “I love you.”
And then she was gone, and I knew that I would never see her again.
Where am I going?
What will it be?
What is my fate?
What’s waiting for me?
Is there a purpose?
To the pain of the past?
What is the reason?
How long will it last.
Am I a man?
Or still just a shell.
Will I be loved?
Or remain in my hell.
Where is my peace?
Where is my home?
What is a life?
That’s destined to roam.
There seems to be an overwhelming desire within me to destroy my relationships, the romantic ones are no exception. And I honestly don’t know whether any of my shortcomings are a direct result of my childhood experiences, or if I’m just an obnoxious bastard.
I find it impossible to believe anyone can love me. And when I am fortunate enough to find someone, as soon as they begin to get even remotely close, my insecurities take over and I become an unbearable monster to live with, often resorting to verbal, and on a few occasions, physical abuse.
From the time I met the mother of my son, to the end of my “short lived” marriage in February of 2009, and all the relationships between the two, the demons residing within in the darkest corners of my mind have always managed to somehow rob me of the love I hunger for.
Having witnessed first-hand the love my parents shared, my desire to be in a healthy supportive relationship has always been one of my priorities. But I just don't seem to get it right. I know how women should be treated; my father set an amazing example. I don't remember him raising his voice, much less speaking harshly to my mum. And she adored him, her eyes lighting up with excitement whenever he stepped through the door. At night, while watching television, my dad would sit on the floor next to Mum's chair massaging her feet. It never looked to be a chore; he seemed perfectly content just touching her.
I'm not naïve enough to believe the relationship my parents had was perfect, but it was calm, supportive, and filled laughter.
Even my antics as a teenager failed to create enough friction to break their bond. It was them against me, which is something I resented at the time, but looking back on it now, I am envious . . . truly envious.
And I often find myself wallowing in “self-pity”, true love seems completely unattainable. My demons won't hear of it.
Despite my armour, I do manage to find myself in relationships, and they always start out great, but as my feelings grow, I become convinced I'm going to be hurt. It's never a conscious thing; it's almost as if I've been programmed to self destruct.
The venom that spills from my mouth is poisonous. I once told my “ex wife” to rot in hell with her dead mother. This is not something I would ever say under normal circumstances, but there's no telling what will set me off once I start feeling threatened.
On this particular night, I just blew up, my aggression rising to such an intense level my wife was forced to leave the house, fearing for her safety. She stayed with a work colleague for the evening, only agreeing to return the following day, once I'd promised to leave.
Feeling absolutely horrid about what I had done, and acknowledging my need for professional help, I made an appointment to see a counsellor. And being the loving person she is, my wife allowed me to move back into our home.
This woman had married me, put up with terrible abuse at my hands, and yet it was still not enough for me to realise she loved me. And it was only a matter of weeks before my next outburst.
Finally, in February of 2009, following a heavy drinking session, I hit her. And quite rightly, she decided it was time to go our separate ways. And wanting what was best for her, I reluctantly agreed.
We were married less than two years.
This is the scenario which has plagued me throughout my adult life. I seem to be incapable of accepting love, to do so feels almost as threatening as being physically attacked. My feelings for a woman seem to unleash the beast within, and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to control my actions.
I’ve drifted through a lonely life; my participation in ill-fated relationships has always been somewhat artificial, in the sense of my inability to return the love that's offered. It truly frightens me to think there's a good chance that I will be growing old alone. Perhaps the numerous scars my assailants left on my heart have rendered me emotionally impotent, and if so . . . then they will have effectively stolen my life, not just my childhood, but my entire fucking life.
That being said, there are many people in this world who abuse others and try to excuse their behaviour by blaming the hardships they have endured. And there have been times I have resorted to this copout myself. But I honestly don’t know if my childhood has any bearing on how my personal life has turned out, or if I’m just one of those blokes born to be a bully.
Looking in the mirror is sometimes very difficult, and I truly hate myself for the hurt I’ve caused. It pains me to think there’s a whole bunch of women in the world who can only associate bad times when my name is mentioned, each of them having one thought in common; “I wish I’d never met him.”
Victim or monster? I just do not know.
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Thursday, 6 August 2015
Losing the Hate: The Ripple Effect - Coming Very Soon
Leaving the Void
It’s a dark and lonely place,
Not a home to be,
I cannot see my face,
Or any remnants of me.
Trapped within the void,
Caged by the system,
Scared to be annoyed,
Stripped of any wisdom.
With suicide in mind,
I’m left to dine on morphine,
My fear and hate entwine,
In the NHS indoctrine
I’ve often thought of writing another book, but in truth, the overwhelming response I had to “Losing the Hate,” left me somewhat bewildered. To think that people from around the world, thousands of them, literally, took the time to reach out in support, left me dumbfounded.
I’m not saying I didn’t receive my share of criticism, but since this was exactly what I’d expected in the first place, it had little effect on me. The positive response, however, changed my life. The validation I received from my readership was completely unexpected, but what surprised me most were the genuine inquiries into my well-being.
My readers wanted more, but I was at loss as to what to write about.
Nothing would have pleased me more than writing a follow-up book, a “look at me now!” guide, show-casing my many accomplishments, and offering up a list of inspirational resources and reference points to guide my fellow victims of abuse to enlightenment.
Unfortunately, on my journey, I chose the road most frequently travelled by victims of abuse, kicking up as much dust as possible along the way.
Rather than deal than with my feelings, I repressed them. The ones I couldn’t repress I saturated with alcohol and drugs, allowing my hostility to remain tucked behind a veil of substance abuse.
“It wasn’t me, it was the drink!”
Even I knew this was a lie, but it was easier than admitting that I’d been triggered, especially, given how little it often took to set me off. Separating my behaviour from my person, and blaming it on an outside source made me, in my own mind at least, appear more reasonable and less responsible for any consequences.
I’m not the first to employ this technique, and sometimes it actually works, most especially when the people you’re trying to convince want desperately to believe you.
I’m also not the first to experience the long term result of substance abuse, and repressed emotion.
If you picked out this book as a self-help alternative, the best I can offer up is an outline of what not to do.
Although, in the past few years, I have made some progress, substantial progress in fact, and ironically it’s almost an act of rebellion. Those of you, who read my first book, Losing the Hate, are probably aware that I am rebel. Aging has had little effect on this aspect of my personality.
Aging has however, forced me to reconcile with my mortality and my body has become my prison.
Before I give you the wrong impression, let me add, my forced slowdown in the form of two heart attacks, has taken me on journeys I would have never expected. When I lost my physical freedom, I had no choice but to reflect on my past and my role in creating my present condition. I’ve also gained some valuable insights concerning both health and spirituality, which I’m happy to share with those of you who continue reading.
As I write this introduction, the book of which I speak, has yet to be written, in fact, it has no title at the moment, because in all honesty I have no idea where I’m going with this, I’m literally taking you along for the ride.
Since so many of you have expressed an interest in what went on in my life since my writing, “Losing the Hate,” I guess that’s where we begin.
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An Act of Aggression (Part Two)
The first few months went swimmingly well. There were no clashes between me and the other five residents, and I’d been allowed to shop for myself following my initial trip with Caz. Even the relationship with my family was back on a fairly even keel.
As soon as the time came for me to leave school everything changed. Between what the state paid me and my food allocation, I was receiving £35 a week. After paying £4.50 board and lodging, the rest of the money was my mine to spend.
I began to drink heavily and it wasn’t long before I made friends who were keen to sell me as much cannabis as I could afford. As my drug and alcohol abuse grew, the unemployment money was no longer enough to cover the lifestyle I’d become accustomed to, and I became very aggressive towards the staff at Kingfisher.
To make my money go further, I started drinking very strong lager with a volume of 9%, only
Returning home when I was out of drink or spoiling for a fight.
The more the staff tried to understand why my behaviour had taken such a dramatic turn, the more I rebelled against them, threatening to run away or smash up furniture. When my threats centred on violence towards whichever staff member I was arguing with, Bill informed me that they’d been instructed to call the police, telling me my adverse behaviour would no longer be tolerated.
The anger inside me continued to escalate and my alcohol consumption remained astronomically high. Feeling unable to release the tension coursing through my veins, I started to self harm in a manner which never happened before; taking kitchen knives to my forearm and really cutting myself in a disturbing way. I’d butcher my arm, hacking rather than cutting, causing gaping wounds that pumped rather than oozed blood. The hatred I’d often shown towards others was now turning inward; and my greatest wish was that death would take me away.
Things got so bad I was being taken to the local hospital two or three times a week to be stitched up. The casualty staff demanded an explanation as to why I was being allowed to hurt myself whilst still under the supervision of council care workers.
It was decided all the kitchen knives were to be kept under lock and key, and if I needed to peel some spuds or cut some meat, it would be done for me, but short of locking me up, there was pretty much little else they could do. Caz continued to try and help. She was genuinely concerned, but I really didn’t have any
interest in sorting things out. The self destruct button in my head was now activated, and there was little anyone could do to help.
As well as self harming, I reacquainted myself with sniffing glue only now I no longer did it privately, thinking nothing of sitting in the communal lounge with my “bag,” waiting for a reaction. When none came, I was more than happy to just get high, revisiting the euphoric world which had welcomed me only a few years before.
I remember one situation in particular, when I pushed my luck to its limits with the officer in charge. His name was Malcolm, a very experienced social worker, being in the job for over ten years. I’d decided to glue sniff in the lounge, desperate to create an argument with him.
Sure enough it was only a matter of minutes before he entered the sitting room, demanding I hand over the bag of Evostick. I told him to fuck off; and he did. Thinking I’d won the battle, I strutted into the kitchen, where another member of the staff was making a hot drink. Proud of my apparent victory, I boasted, “he’s a fuckin’ good social worker aint he? Couldn’t even get the glue off me, wanker.”
The residents present looked at me in disbelief, and the staff member, a black guy called Les, smiled at me and simply said, “D’you want to talk about it Simon?”
I paced around the dining table, inhaling the bag of glue, laughing hysterically between breaths, knowing I looked insane.
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Tuesday, 28 July 2015
Trusting a Monster
IN THE FLAT
As soon as I entered the lounge of the now all too familiar
flat, I knew something bad was about to happen. My body felt like it was
wrapped in invisible chains, and I smelt fear. my own fear. It was as though
the atmosphere pulsated with such intensity that it grabbed me, shaking my
flimsy little body, flaying my limbs in all directions, like some pathetic rag
doll.
God, I was so terribly scared.
Ropeman left me alone while he went to the kitchen to sort
out our drinks. The sight of the beer made me shudder, and the muscles that
didn't tighten, twitched instead.
A dark and gloomy, musty smell,
A place no warmer than a prison cell,
Strange thoughts enter into your head,
You now start wishing you were tucked up in bed.
A frightening chill shoots through the air,
All you do is stand and stare,
It’s a place with an eerie feeling,
Your heart by now is really speeding.
Sepulchre,
Sepulchre,
What a place,
Your heart is beating a rapid pace.
That awful chill is slowly rising,
All you think of is surviving,
But as you try to run and leave,
You can’t help thinking your eyes deceive,
Lurking in that gloomy doorway,
Is something that’s come out of doomsday,
You try to move, but are stuck to the spot,
You try to scream but breathing…, you’re not.
Sepulchre,
Sepulchre,
What a place,
It’s now your home.
To my relief, after handing me a beer, Ropeman slid the
video cassette into the player, and we settled down to watch the film I was far
too young to see. I tried to
concentrate, but I was conscious of his every move; my muscles tightening at
the slightest twitch. It was an exceptionally good summer, so when
he asked if I was hot, I replied with a simple yes,
pretending to be engrossed in the film. But I knew in fact, every cell in my
naïve young body sensed danger. And when
he suggested I might be more comfortable if I removed my top, the fear
enveloped me to the point of numbness, and before I knew it, there I was,
stripped to the waist again.
It wasn’t long before the second stage of his sick plan was
being put into action. “Shall we stretch out a bit? After all, there’s plenty
of room,” he said. I felt like a rat
caught in a trap, knowing there was no way out; no one was going to be knocking
at the door and saving me.
“Is it ok if I use the toilet?” I asked the question merely
as an escape, something that would give me a bit more time, however limited it
might be before the inevitable happened. Ropeman stopped the tape and directed
me to the bathroom.
On returning to the lounge, I noticed that he’d removed his
top. He was sprawled across the whole of
the sofa, smiling, beckoning me to join him.
What choice did I have?
With a great deal of apprehension, which I’m convinced he
was aware of, I did as I was asked.
After awkwardly positioning myself into place, he began cuddling me from
behind, pulling me closer before stroking my chest. Within seconds I felt his
arousal in the small of my back. Without
success I tried to ignore the feel of his sweaty fingers by losing myself in
the movie.
Try as I might . . . and I did try, going so far as
to close my eyes and picturing myself saying the words, but
somehow I couldn't summon the courage to tell him to stop.
My silence was deafening, and the sound of his erratic
breathing all but consumed me, before I fell away.
You touched me,
Held me,
And stroked my chest,
Told me that you,
My teacher knew best.
I felt your hardness,
In the small of my back,
I had a chill in my spine,
When you said I’d be fine.
“I’ve always felt sorry for you, what with you being adopted
and everything.”
“It really is a pleasure to teach you”
“You’ve had a hard start to your life haven’t you?”
“Try to relax a bit more, you feel so tense. I won’t bite.”
These were some of
the things he was saying as he fondled me.
I didn't respond. Instead, I closed my eyes and waited for the nightmare
to end, ironically finding solace in the chaotic sounds blasting from the
television.
After what seemed a lifetime, the movie finally came to an
end. I eventually found the courage to say that I wanted to go home. To my
astonishment my molester agreed, but he made me drink some strong coffee first.
An hour later I was in the safety of my bedroom, alone and
isolated, but safe, unaware of the horrors that were waiting for me in the not
too distant future.
Monday, 27 July 2015
I Hurt So Many People. . .
MY SON
Lewisham hospital, South London
I intended to be the best father in the world. The love I
felt for him the instant he was born was something I had never experienced
before . . . and nothing has overwhelmed
me to that degree since. Apart from the actual birth, one of my fondest
memories of the evening was when Julie, with our baby cuddled in her arms, said
to me, “Come and meet your son.”
In my mind’s eye, I can still see his little screwed up
face; the sound of his first cries in the world still ring in my eardrums. And once I held him in my arms all that
mattered was the love I felt for him, and I vowed in earnest to protect the young
beautiful life I'd helped create.
And I failed him.
Aside from going to
work, I put absolutely no effort into providing my child, whom we had named
James, a loving family environment. In fact, all I managed to contribute was
pain and heartache.
While Julie was busy at home looking after baby James, I
continued my drunken nights out down the pub, having affairs with young dolly
birds, spending what should have been my son’s money on buying them drinks and
cigarettes.
The physical abuse towards his mother became more and more
horrendous by the day, but I believed it was justified; it was I who was the
one being hard done by. When I think of the times I used to slag Julie off to
my parents, claiming she wouldn't even bother to cook for me and ranting about
her inability to keep a clean house embarrasses me to this day.
I was an evil young man with no feeling for anyone but
myself.
One terrible occasion will always stick in my mind. It was a
Sunday afternoon, Julie and I had decided to go to the local park where there
was a bit of a fete taking place. And so, with James in the pushchair, we
walked the short journey to the celebrations. We’d arranged to meet a friend of
ours, Laura, at the main entrance, and intended to make a day of it, strolling
around the various stalls.
We had not anticipated that there would be a beer tent.
“Look. There’s only a fuckin’ bar.” I exclaimed, already
shoving my hand in my pocket, hoping I had enough cash on me.
‘‘D’you have to,” asked Julie, rolling her eyes, “you’ve got
plenty of cans back home; we won’t be here that long.”
I glared at her, “Shut the fuck up.” And with that fond
farewell, I disappeared into the crowd.
Pushing my way to the trestle table, I waved a ten pound note in the
air, franticly trying to grab the barman’s attention, as if my very life
depended on it.
Getting very impatient, I leaned as far across the makeshift
bar as was physically possible and shouted for service; more than a few heads
turning in my direction as I did so. The guy behind the table finally looked at
me, an expression of total contempt etched on his face, but he served me just
the same. After paying for the glass of cloudy beer, I scanned the area to see
if I recognised anyone. My body froze, and the glass I was holding threatened to
shatter under the pressure. It was
Ropeman, fuck me, it was Ropeman!
The first thoughts entering my mind were extremely
violent. It would take no effort at all
to drive my glass into his throat; to twist and turn it until every last drop
of his poisonous blood drained from his lifeless body. I imagined a
bloodstained corpse sprawled on the grass; saw myself kicking and punching the
putrid remains until the police arrived and arrested me for the cold-blooded
murder of a “respected” schoolteacher.
Finding it very difficult to contain myself, I walked
towards him, not quite knowing what I intended to do. He began smiling that
same old pathetic smile of his, trying to look as if he was happy to see me,
but I
saw through him; the look of terror apparent in his
soulless eyes.
At the last minute, my thoughts reversed. It wasn't fear,
far from it; in reality I could easily snap his neck. For whatever reason, it
became more important that he see, despite what he’d done, I had survived. Although this was far from being true,
outwardly it would appear I was doing well.
“Hello Simon, I don’t believe it. How the devil are you?”
“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ great, you?” I gulped at my drink
“Not too bad, I’m teaching at a different school these days,
the pay rise helps too.”
(And how many little boys’ lives have you destroyed since
working there?)
It was clear he didn’t want to talk, as his next sentence
confirmed, “Anyway, it’s nice to see you, but I must get on. You look after
yourself, ok?”
Tilting my glass in his direction, I nodded goodbye and he
was gone, leaving me every bit as empty and violated as the last time I'd seen
him all those years ago.
I needed another drink.
After downing four or five pints of real ale, I decided to
go in search of Julie and Laura; feeling an immediate need to be free of the
crowd which was suffocating me from all directions.
And my anger was rising.
I don’t know you,
An’ you don’t know me,
Get out of my way,
Just leave me be.
I’ll tear you apart,
Limb from limb,
An’ all the while,
I’ll imagine you’re him.
Give me an excuse,
An’ I’ll destroy you’re life,
Slash your throat,
Kill your wife
Stamp on your head,
‘Till your skull caves in,
An’ all the while,
I’ll imagine you’re him.
Murder you all,
An’ imagine you’re him.
It wasn’t long before I was pushing through a throng of mums
and dads. Everyone busy laughing as
their children ran around screaming and shouting with delight at the many
sideshows on offer.
And my anger’s still rising.
After completing two circuits of the madness and mayhem
surrounding me, I decided to go back to the beer tent; thinking they may have
been trying to find me.
And my anger was rising.
“Simon. Over here!” They were sitting on a bench outside the
toilets.
“Where the fuck do you think you’ve been?” I bellowed,
causing people to look in my direction for the second time that day.
The finale of that terrible afternoon saw me kick my child’s
pushchair over, and punch Julie in the side of the head twice; my son was in
her arms at the time.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, once I’d returned home, and
with my temper still raging, I completely trashed the lounge, destroying
everything I could get my hands on, which included James’ toys.
If I’d heard of someone else acting in such a despicable
manner, I would have had one simple word befitting such a person; scum. Anyone
in their right mind knows behaviour like that is beyond unacceptable, it is the
lowest of the low, and there are no excuses to defend such horrific actions.
I’ve not been in James’ life since he was four years old,
and it hurts me far more than any of the evil acts I was subjected to. I've
missed out on so much; kicking a football in the park, helping him with
homework, enjoying the look on his face on Christmas morning . . . so many lost years, times that no amount of
wishing can bring back.
Often there are simply no second chances. This is something
I've found out the hard way; the way I discover most things, by fucking them up
beyond belief.
And in truth, when it comes to James most especially, I'm
not deserving of a second chance. What
bothers me most is that my son is paying the consequences for my selfish
acts. He was the one cheated, and I got
exactly what I deserved.
On numerous occasions I’ve taken steps to find my on, but I
always seem to come up against a brick wall.
However, if I’m truly honest, I certainly could’ve done
more, an awful lot more.
I miss him so terribly much.
Easier to Hate
DRUGS, DRINK, AND SELF LOATHING
The first few months went swimmingly well. There were no
clashes between me and the other five residents, and I’d been allowed to shop
for myself following my initial trip with Caz. Even the relationship with my
family was back on a fairly even keel.
As soon as the time came for me to leave school everything
changed. Between what the state paid me and my food allocation, I was receiving
£35 a week. After paying £4.50 board and lodging, the rest of the money was my
mine to spend.
I began to drink heavily and it wasn’t long before I made
friends who were keen to sell me as much cannabis as I could afford. As my drug
and alcohol abuse grew, the unemployment money was no longer enough to cover
the lifestyle I’d become accustomed to, and I became very aggressive towards the
staff at Kingfisher.
To make my money go further, I started drinking very strong
lager with a volume of 9%, only
Returning home when I was out of drink or spoiling for a
fight.
The more the staff
tried to understand why my behaviour had taken such a dramatic turn, the more I
rebelled against them, threatening to run away or smash up furniture. When my
threats centred on violence towards whichever staff member I was arguing with,
Bill informed me that they’d been instructed to call the police, telling me my
adverse behaviour would no longer be tolerated.
The anger inside me continued to escalate and my alcohol
consumption remained astronomically high. Feeling unable to release the tension
coursing through my veins, I started to self harm in a manner which never
happened before; taking kitchen knives to my forearm and really cutting myself
in a disturbing way. I’d butcher my arm, hacking rather than cutting, causing
gaping wounds that pumped rather than oozed blood. The hatred I’d often shown
towards others was now turning inward; and my greatest wish was that death
would take me away.
Things got so bad I was being taken to the local hospital
two or three times a week to be stitched up. The casualty staff demanded an
explanation as to why I was being allowed to hurt myself whilst still under the
supervision of council care workers.
It was decided all the kitchen knives were to be kept under
lock and key, and if I needed to peel some spuds or cut some meat, it would be
done for me, but short of locking me up, there was pretty much little else they
could do. Caz continued to try and help.
She was genuinely concerned, but I really didn’t have any
interest in sorting things out. The self destruct button in
my head was now activated, and there was little anyone could do to help.
As well as self harming, I reacquainted myself with sniffing
glue only now I no longer did it privately, thinking nothing of sitting in the
communal lounge with my “bag,” waiting for a reaction. When none came, I was
more than happy to just get high, revisiting the euphoric world which had
welcomed me only a few years before.
I remember one situation in particular, when I pushed my
luck to its limits with the officer in charge. His name was Malcolm, a very
experienced social worker, being in the job for over ten years. I’d decided to
glue sniff in the lounge, desperate to create an argument with him.
Sure enough it was only a matter of minutes before he
entered the sitting room, demanding I hand over the bag of Evostick. I told him
to fuck off; and he did. Thinking I’d won the battle, I strutted into the
kitchen, where another member of the staff was making a hot drink. Proud of my
apparent victory, I boasted, “he’s a fuckin’ good social worker aint he?
Couldn’t even get the glue off me, wanker.”
The residents present looked at me in disbelief, and the
staff member, a black guy called Les, smiled at me and simply said, “D’you want
to talk about it Simon?”
I paced around the dining table, inhaling the bag of glue,
laughing hysterically between breaths, knowing I looked insane.
“Simon, you don’t need that stuff,” continued Les, “why
don’t you come into the quiet room and have a chat?”
I begrudgingly followed Les, doing a shit job of imitating
his swagger for the benefit of no one in particular.
“Fuck it, what d’you want me to talk about then?”
Unbeknown to me, Malcolm had called the police, and just as
I handed Les my bag, two officers came running towards me. I legged it through
the lounge and out the back door, making it halfway across the garden, before
being caught. A torrent of abuse flew from my mouth and I began to kick out at
my captors. They managed to get the handcuffs on me and I spat in their
faces.
“You bunch of fuckin’ pricks, get yer fuckin’ hands off me
you dirty cunts!”
I was frogmarched out of the building and shoved into the
back of the van, with Les following.
“Calm down Simon,
we’ll get it all sorted out at the police station. Don’t worry, it’ll all be
fine.”
Deptford “nick” was a mere stones throw from Kingfisher, and
so it was only a matter of minutes before I found myself sitting in the custody
suite.
Following a search the cops also found a small quantity of
cannabis in my jacket pocket, together with some “poppers,” (amyl nitrate).
I’d discovered poppers a few months prior while browsing one
of the many adult shops in London West End . The arresting officer took the
substances
Away and I was left sitting with Les on a bench running
along the back wall of the room.
“What’s up mate? You’ve really got to sort things out buddy,
why d’you keep doing these things to yourself?”
I was crying.
I was scared.
And I hated me.
“I just fuckin’ hate myself Les, just wanna fuckin’ die.”
My voice was raised and a few of the policemen milling
around glanced over, probably concerned I was going to kick off again. But Les
carried an air of confidence, it was clear he had things under control, so they
refrained from intervening.
When Les instructed me to stay put and left, the minutes
seemed like hours. I was convinced they
were going to charge me for possession at the very least, if not resisting
arrest, and in all honesty, that's not what was bothering me. I was more concerned that my stay at
Kingfisher was in jeopardy.
Finally, Les returned together with the arresting officer.
It was decided I would only be cautioned, but it was made clear, next time
would definitely be a different story.
An Act of Aggression (Part One)
THE ROAD TO KINGFISHER
Morris was not to blame. He was just unlucky enough to be in
the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was there waiting for him.
It was a Friday afternoon. I’d stopped caring whether I’d be
put away and wagged school with Sean. We sniffed glue most of the day, and
returned to the school at home time, hoping to find someone who’d “donate”
their cigarettes to us. Poor old Morris came bounding around the corner, nearly
knocking me over. You could see the fear sweep across his face, his mouth
moving but no words coming out.
“Hello wanker, got any fags?” I asked, widening my eyes in
an attempt to scare him even more.
“No, I, I smoked ‘em all at lunch.”
“Fuck off.” I took a step closer.
“I haven’t! I smoked ‘em all, honest!”
I took hold of the lapels of his blazer, “Bollocks, don’t
lie to me you little prick!”
“Leave me alone, Si’, I aint got none!”
I punched him full in
the face. He let out an agonising cry as his nose exploded. Blood and tears
began to stream down his cheeks.
When he fell to the ground, I began brutally kicking
him. He curled into a ball, attempting
to avoid the swing of my boot. Morris was howling like a baby. With every kick
I delivered the faces of Ropeman, Stuart, and Karen, flashed in my mind; and
the clearer the pictures became, the more violently I kicked.
I could hear my name being called, but it sounded as if it
were somewhere in the distance.
“Fuckin’ hell, Si’, leave him! You’re gonna kill the
fucker!” I heard Sean's voice; no longer off in the distance, but shouting
directly in my ear.
Somehow Sean managed to drag me away, tears now pouring from
my eyes as well. We ran down the hill and across the road at the bottom,
franticly dodging cars like frightened rabbits. With Sean still clutching my
arm we sped down an alley and into the garden of a derelict house, my
adrenaline pumping and the anger still very much in control.
“What the fuck did ya do that for?” I shouted, still readied
for confrontation.
“Bollocks, Si’, you’d have killed the poor little cunt!”
I grabbed Sean by the collar and pulled his face close to
mine, “You ever do somethin’ like that again, I’ll fuckin’ well do you, an’
all, d’you understand me?”
I let go of him and he fell to his knees, still gasping for
air after all the running we’d just endured. Sean knew better than to argue
with me, therefore nothing else was said.
We left the garden and peered around the corner; everything
seemed quiet, so we casually began walking down the road. I asked if we were
going to meet up on Monday morning, the usual place, at the entrance to the
cemetery. He nodded, before turning on
his heels, and we went our separate ways.
I never saw Sean again.
http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434502375&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate
Thursday, 14 May 2015
The Photo Shoot
The next day at school Ropeman asked me if the following
Saturday would be okay to take the photographs. I told him that would be great
and excitedly ranted about how much I was looking forward to doing them. He
patted me on the shoulder and smiled, saying that if at all possible I should
bring a few items of clothing. When I asked what it was I should wear, he
simply replied, “Whatever you look good in.”
After what seemed to be an absolute lifetime, Saturday
morning finally arrived and I was ready and waiting outside the school gates,
clutching a carrier bag my mother had filled with various items of clothing. It
was only a matter of minutes before Ropeman pulled up in his car, beaming his
usual smile and gesturing for me to get into the front seat, “Morning young
man, you all set and raring to go then?”
“You bet,” I answered, “I got some jeans an’ T-shirts, Mum
ironed me school uniform an’ all.”
“Excellent, lets rock an’ roll then.” He seemed to be as
excited as I was, explaining that we would be doing the shoot at his flat,
saying it made more sense since his equipment was stored there.
The drive only took about twenty minutes, and as I got out
of the car an unfamiliar sound of gravel crunched under my feet. A huge
Victorian house seemed to peer down, almost beckoning me with it’s large
“window-eyes,” inviting me to enter it’s mouth; and as I continued to gaze at
the sheer magnitude of the building I felt his hand rest on my shoulder, “It’s
not all mine I’m afraid.”
When I looked up at Ropeman, I noticed he was almost
beaming, a smile plastered across his chubby face. Without hesitating I smiled
too, still feeling fortunate and tremendously excited.
We walked side by side across the drive, up the enormous
stone steps and entered the gigantic front door. Any onlooker who may have happened to glance
our way could easily have mistaken us for father and son.
Inside was an unexpectedly small hallway with a winding
staircase leading up to the first floor. Ropeman gestured me towards an inner
door opposite the stairs. He led me down
a narrow passageway that opened out into an impressive lounge. The room was
littered with bookcases, but my eyes were immediately drawn to the lighting and
tripod that dominated the centre of the living space. Ropeman left me alone while
he sorted out some cold drinks. When he
returned I could hardly believe my eyes; he was carrying two glasses of beer. I
put the glass to my lips and took a huge mouthful.
“You take your time with that young man; there’ll be hell to
pay if I take you home tidily.”
I was ten years old.
He suggested that we begin straight away and I was told to
sit on the sofa, ignoring the camera as best as my excitement would allow.
Maybe about six or seven shots were
taken when, as cheerful as ever, Ropeman asked me to take off my top. He explained that it would add to the image
of me relaxing at home.
The request made me feel quite embarrassed, but ignoring the
sudden wave of apprehension sweeping over me, I agreed and removed my T-shirt.
A dozen or so more pictures were taken before we took a
short break. He offered me more
beer. We chatted about school and what I
got up to during the evening with my friends, Peter Simpson and Mark Milner.
They were also his students, and the thought crossed my mind how envious they
would be when they found out I had spent the day at Ropeman's home, drinking
beer no less.
Once the small talk was all but done, he piped up with what
was quite obviously the next part of his elaborate plan, “What do you think of
stretching out on the sofa, as if you were asleep? Think you can do that?”
“Yeah, be easy,” I said with false bravado as another wave
of apprehension took hold.
And it was there, as I lay on the settee that my journey
into hell began.
I remember feeling as though a thousand eyes were staring at
me; and at that moment I truly hated the camera more than anything in the
entire world.
When Ropeman instructed me to pull my jeans up as far as
they would go, my young mind had no idea that the next shot would be centered
on my private parts.
Minutes later my photo was being taken with me wearing
nothing but my underpants, again, pulled up as far as they would go.
Take it away, take it away,
Smash it or burn it, that Saturday.
Tear it and rip it,
Take the memory away,
I long to forget that Saturday.
Leave me, leave me, and leave me alone,
No more photos, just take me home.
Don’t give me smiles,
An’ I don’t want your beer,
Don’t ask me to strip,
Don’t fill me with fear.
I hate you, I hate you.
You horrible man.
I often wonder how many lives may have been destroyed by my
silence, how many tears were shed because I did not have the strength to tell
anyone what he’d done to me?
Sometimes, when my
mind travels back to those horrific years, reliving the anguish and torment,
desperately trying to understand why he did those things, I wonder if my fear
of speaking out indirectly sealed another child’s fate. When, stripped to the
waist, while standing in the middle of his lounge with nothing but my briefs
on, was I helping to lay the blueprints of someone else’s future? Sealing
another young person's nightmare at the hands of a vile and twisted creature?
I know that in the cold light of day, I’m in no way to blame
for anything, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling these emotions.
God, how I wish that my silence hadn’t been quite so damned
silent.
(Taken from the book, Losing the Hate).
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