Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Once upon a time there was a young man christened with the unfortunate name of Handsome. He hated his name – of course he did – and his father loved to tease that Handsome was named so because his mother was high on Morphine when her youngest child came into the world. Throughout his schooling years, the other kids teased him mercilessly; but a name is what it is and Handsome was stuck with his. The biggest – or at least most obvious – issue that Handsome faced, was that he was the very definition of ‘unfortunate looking’. He was all awkward limbs and tufty hair; and the smattering of freckles on his cheeks just didn’t seem symmetrical.
Handsome was an introvert. He didn’t much like people, simply because they seemed so alien to him. While his father sat on the couch, reading the newspaper and cursing occasionally, Handsome’s two sisters sat at the kitchen table, absorbed in their homework and conversation about their mutual crush, Andrew, simultaneously.
Every day after school, Handsome took his bag up to his room, flung it into the near corner and forcibly removed his tired shoes. He would sit hugging his knees to his chest, his bony spine resting against the cold metal frame of his bed. Handsome lost count of the hours he had spent staring blankly through the rocking horse his father had brought home from a hard rubbish collection years earlier. His mother always lamented that the dynamics in the family had shifted once the ‘Oops Baby’ followed the twin girls. She said that all the time – particularly when she was shrill and slurring, with chardonnay in hand.
Handsome was supposed to be the man’s man – the brute – but he couldn’t be what he was expected to be. Lord knows how hard he tried. There was the junior football club experience. He really tried to be excited – for his father’s sake – but during the very first quarter of his very first game – smaller and more reticent than the others, he caught a heavy knock and his ear drum burst into pain. Handsome lost his confidence and all desire to play team sports, for fear of getting hurt, for fear of disappointing his seemingly always-disappointed father.
Being alone in his room gave Handsome the opportunity to recharge. His gaze shifted from the rugged rocking horse with the frayed bridle, to the model tractor his father had built with him on his twelfth birthday. That was the last time Handsome had spent deliberate time with his father. It was forced somehow – for both parties. His father just wanted to talk engine size and oil change and diesel. This was a foreign language to Handsome, however, and the allotted time together became punctuated by his father’s stilted sighs, until Handsome’s discomfort was palpable. At this point, his father would mutter something about tidying up his office and he would leave the garage without a word.
Handsome felt as if no one really knew him; he was exhausted by the bullying, the insincerity, his isolation. It was an ordinary Wednesday when he made the decision. He took a coil of rope from the garage, stuffed it in his school bag and smuggled it up to his room. Like every other afternoon, he slumped against the cold metal of his bed frame, staring through the rocking horse against the opposite wall. This Wednesday, however, Handsome wound the rope around his left hand. Two, three, four times around and then he pulled it tight. He felt the constriction, noticed the purpling of his fingers, felt the blood pulsing and pushing back against the ligature. It wouldn’t be any different to tie it around his throat, he thought. The abrasion might be a little tighter, the damage a little more severe – but he was doing them all a favour. Handsome was convinced that his presence was redundant.
‘You’re an introvert’, his mother would say.
Handsome interpreted this to mean, ‘You are invisible’.
He fondled the rope, held it up to his throat and sighed deeply. It was time.
Unexpectedly, the twins were suddenly at the door. They pushed it open without knocking, as they were prone to do.
‘Mum says she’s sick of calling you for dinner. Hurry up, would you?’
You can read more of my writing via my blog, ‘Complikated’. The web address is: www.kateginnivan.com.