When the heart is pumping triple and the adrenalin of fear is racing through the body, all feelings of shame or embarrassment fly out the window. In moments like that, one can do almost anything and there is a sort of universal understanding and acceptance at what is at stake – at the force which drove someone to such an extreme place. Being saved is like that. Even if you're laying there with your pants full of crap, somehow it no longer matters... all that's important is life.

When mum untied me from the chair and set me free, the dismal state I was in was not even a thought in my head. Neither was Brian, who on seeing mother coming down the hallway, cupped his hands over his cock-ringed cock and ran and shut himself away in the kitchen. All I could say was: “They wanted to kill me!”

It was only after I had chucked on a shirt, dropped a couple of chicken thighs in the front window box for Marlowe and was safely strapped in the back of mother's car that reality once again returned.

In the rear view mirror I caught a sight of my piss soaked hair and busted, swollen, sticky face. Then I took a look down at myself. The car was reeking of body fluids. Normally only babies or very young children smell that bad. Mother wound down a window and hit the accelerator. She said something about pouring me a glass of eggnog and making me a black pudding sandwich. I thought of urine and earwax and big black rubber dildos. Then I saw a vision of myself falling out into the yard... What I must have looked like as I made a grab for Mother's swollen ankle. My low sense of pride was rattled. I felt ill. “I just want some rest.” I said “I'll explain all this tomorrow.”

And that's how I ended up in my old room, sleeping on a mattress which the occasional relative soils whenever they over drink or eat at Christmas. As for my talk with mother – well, it never happened. At 5.30am, as the first light of morning broke through, I rose and dressed. To the rhythm of heavy snoring I tiptoed down the stairs and out the door. As London woke up and shutters were being raised, I walked back home looking like I'd just been turned out the doss house. Maybe I had, or maybe I was just hell bent on revenge.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Waiting for John. Citrus Pink Blogger Theme Design By LawnyDesignz Powered by Blogger