Monday, April 11, 2005

The scar on my knee

He was never right not like the rest of us, though he lived in the same street. He’d play sometimes but nothing rough, never too far from his front door. The rest of us, we’d be off down the park before our Mum could look at the clock but he’d never come, always had some excuse or just, ‘I don’t think so - not today.’ Was it his glasses’ thick black frames or that jibby lip he got from his Dad? We quarrelled once over a toy car and the fact that he always beat me at chess so there, and he threw his toy rifle (with a real tin barrel), threw it at me: the circular scar’s still here on my knee. I limped home bravely, howling indoors. I’d never walk again, it was definitely broken, my knee was broken for life or at least until I was nine in five days’ time. He was never right, but he never deserved all those breakdowns, all those years when they put him away on his own. I think he knew all along what was coming, right from the time he threw the rifle: knew he wasn’t like the rest of us, though he lived in the same street.

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