Once upon a time ...

Once upon a time ...

There was a little boy who didn't look like, sound like or feel like all the other boys and girls he'd been in class with all his life: they didn't like him and used to call him names all the time, but he didn't know what to say or do to make them stop; even when they hurt him they never listened. Then he would feel very sorry that no one wanted to be his friend and only wanted to make fun of him all the time. If he ever tried to say "stop it" he just ended up really really upset because something didn't work properly in his head and got so confused. Some days he would sit and cry all day because nothing he did made any difference. The teacher were all equally mean to him because they often made him do things which he could not understand and they never explained things - or when things were fun would they suddenly clap their hands and tell the class to stop what they were doing and to pay attention to the front of the class. If they wanted him to do anything it would have been nicer to be asked or to be made to feel there was some purpose to their arbitrary whims. And he wasn't a bully or bad in class but Mrs Bison gave him lines everyday when he asked her why or got lost or forgot where he was. It was a time of pain for which no one seemed willing to provide a remedy. Like the boys and girls in the class the teacher never stopped shaking, moving and doing things - they were only quiet when he was writing lines, that made his fingers hurt and his head ache, and they were writing ticks or crosses with red angry pens.

However, before he was really very old he was told by all the people called adults, but who he though that were big monsters, it was time to go on a journey without any one to hold his hand - no adult, without supervision, to be all grown up, like a big boy now even though he didn't really feel any different to how he had yesterday. To be brave and not to worry. "What are you afraid of - I've given you all the tools you'll need for this journey when you were born" said his mean, selfish, angry, abusive, thoughtless, self-centered heartless ogre of a father (because he knew everything there was to know even though he never read a book, or had "went" to school himself, but knew everything there was to know from watching the telly and looking at coloured books filled with photos of pretty ladies without no clothing on - even though he always said "never cast a cloth until May's out" these pretty ladies didn't wear any clothing all through Autumn, Winter and Spring either).

Even though he was terrified of his father, and everyone he knew, he did what he was told because he believed adults tell the truth the whole time - it is only children who pretend, cheat, tell tales and lie - he got his stuff in his leather case packed it tightly and secured it wit string ready for this long journey. He went to catch the locomotive all by himself, stuttering and paranoid, holding his ticket very close afraid someone might just take it away - then his father would be very cross.

After some time had passed the train arrived, he climbed aboard and sat at a numbered seat, trying very hard not catch anyone's eye in case they would pick on him, ask him silly questions and make him forget his words.

The train left the station and the boy starred in awe at the scenery that was passing the window; no one else on the train seemed to be looking as they were all speaking all at the same time: it was so confusing to decide what they were talking about and who they were talking to; and they never stopped the whole time that this new picture was flying passed the window. Then someone called a doctor handed him some sweets, but they didn't taste too nice, and the doctor adult said the boy would need to take one every day to make sure the journey didn't make him afraid or injury himself or upset anyone else and, because he trusted the adult, he sat in his seat eating the bitter sweets. But they just made him forget how lovely the world was for too long and made him numb to what was really happening to the rickety carriage. Still he didn't speak to anyone.

But after a while this boy became daunted by the fumes, sounds, cacophony and general disorder of what was quickly becoming a very shaky, overcrowded, noisy, smelly, disorganised carriage, and decided to get off on his own before the station they were due to end this journey at. Something was making him sure that it was about to crash, derail or something terribly bad was going to happen very soon and if he didn't get off this dangerously maladjusted, corrupt, unlevel, rattling and broken contraption soon he might not live another day and might never be on the outside of the carriage witnessing the wonders he was seeing.

So as the train pulled up to another platform he squeezed breathlessly between those on the train, who starred at him and tutted and sighed and returned to their newspapers, radios and conversations, and those who tried to keep him on the train forcing their way onto the battery farmed cluster of heads, frowns and horrible eyes starring at nothing. But he was out! Well before the station he was told would be his destination he could breath; even if they starred and mouthed at him like silent fish faces.

...

For a little time, once he had stood alone for a while (and far away from the carriage he'd left waiting to take on more people!) and allowed his nausea to subside, he felt tough, strong, bold and altogether happier that suddenly he had left that vehicle just as it was about to break into a million little pieces that no one could glue back together ever again.

Then, as he grew a little more accustomed to the smells, sights and sounds of the new place he'd come to, a strange fear gripped him because suddenly what had seemed pleasantly safe was showing him things that just didn't make sense at all. The feeling he had didn't pass but, as he looked around himself more and more, the very fabric here was not what it had seemed. The bricks and mortar were apparently solid to the eyes and to the touch, they even smelt how a brick should smell, but the smell wasn't full, the colour wasn't intense and when he touched the walls his fingers and arms would disappear if he wasn't paying attention. The structure was only apparently dense, robust and unassailable. His father had never told him this, and no one at school mentioned it either. It was very very strange but actually quite nice at the same time.

Looking closer he saw too many infinitely impenetrable and infinitely tiny spaces which seemed to hold millions of deep, mysterious passages, caves and caverns beyond what his ridiculously frantic head could ever follow. So many holes that there was barely space for the substances his senses were telling him were there. His hands didn't know how to stop twitching. Did his father know about this but didn't tell him because it was a great big secret only special people are allowed to know?

After a frantic few moments, collecting hastily only the most solid possessions from his carefully packed bag, and still thinking "I might fall!", he carefully began climbing through the passageways, dark and elusive. Until finally, so dark and infirm, and so abysmal, it became so that he couldn't see the route from where he had descended. Now he became so afraid that he cried out, but there was no reply, not even an echo, nothing returned to assure him he wasn't lost - it was like being alone, in the pitch black in a cave made of a dense sound devouring mouth. Forever in amongst the mystery of not being sure, not trusting what his eyes, nose, mouth, ears and senses could tell him about this new place, here he was. No way back and still no one to trust.

Because adults rarely tell the truth, whole or partial, this journey to the centre of the substances had revealed a myriad details, but none of it was what he had been told was there. No one had told him to look that deeply at the world, because no one questioned anything they had been told for aeons, by their adults, schools and mean rulers.

...