Don’t trust him, they said. He’ll hurt you. You’re too good for him. He’s a wild one, that one. You don’t know what you’ve let yourself in for. He’s dangerous.
The first time he hit me, I told myself it was one off. I’d goaded him into it, so it was my own fault, really. It stung like hell. He stared at his hand as though it had acted independently of him. And he apologised straight away, so I know he didn’t mean to. He just lost control.
The second time he hit me, I split my lip open. He apologised and apologised, and he held a cold towel to my face and he kissed my brow and he promised it wouldn’t happen again. And I believed him.
The third time he hit me, I’d burnt the dinner. And I mean, he’d worked a long shift, he was expecting a decent dinner, and I cocked it up. So that time it was definitely my fault. He didn’t say sorry, though. He just stormed out the flat, almost ripping the door from its hinges.
The fourth time he hit me, my head snapped back into the door frame, and I was knocked out cold. When I came to, the flat was trashed. The dinner table had been overturned. The stuffing ripped out of the sofa. Books torn from the shelves. Bryony from next door was hovering over me, so I told her I didn’t know what had happened. That maybe we’d been burgled.
The fifth time he hit me, he beat me to a pulp and I was in hospital for a week. He played the part of worried husband, didn’t stray from my side once. He told the police he’d found me like it at home, that we’d been burgled quite recently, maybe the two incidents were connected? I did as I was told and kept to the story, but I realised I was afraid of him now. And I didn’t want to be afraid anymore.
So the sixth time he hit me, I hit him back. I swiped at his face with my nails, I bit his arms as he held me down, I spat in his eye as his sweaty face loomed over me. And when it was over, when I’d straightened my dress and cleaned myself up, I drove a kitchen knife into his chest. And I don’t regret it one bit.
Showing posts with label Wild One. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wild One. Show all posts
Wednesday, 15 May 2013
Wild One by James D. Irwin
I moved into the flat about three years ago. The landlord had warned me that I would be sharing with another tenant, and the he was ‘a bit of a wild one.’ I was grateful for the warning, but I assured him that I had probably had worse in my university Halls.
However, to call my new room-mate ‘a bit of a wild one’ proved to be something of an understatement. To my great surprise I found myself living with the famed feral child of the Utomugo River. He had been discovered living amongst panthers or cougars or something in the early 1990s. He had been brought back to Britain to be civilised and properly cared for. Of course he was a little older now, but it was unmistakably him. He wore only a loin cloth, and a soiled but fashionable t-shirt.
I extended my hand in friendly introduction. The feral child (I never did learn his name) sniffed my palm nervously, whimpered, and then urinated in the far corner of the lounge. This was apparently something of a favourite pastime for him.
Whilst he had been taught to walk upright, and could grasp and enjoy basic cable television, he was in all other areas distinctly feline in attitude and manner. In many ways he was the worst chap I ever roomed with. He was a messy eater, completely uneducated, and prone to defecating on the furniture. Of course you couldn't say anything because it was the way he’d been brought up. He was also incredibly poor company on the social scene--- unable to hold neither conversation, nor his drink.
But somehow I can still only look back fondly at my life with ‘the wild one.’ We were clearly both two very different people, but in time we developed something that was a vague approximation of a friendship. In my first few months at the flat he would try to eat me an average of twelve times a week. By the time I came to leave that was down to about three times a month.
I don’t know if he was sad to see me go, but as I was leaving he brought me a freshly dead bird and dropped it at my feet.
However, to call my new room-mate ‘a bit of a wild one’ proved to be something of an understatement. To my great surprise I found myself living with the famed feral child of the Utomugo River. He had been discovered living amongst panthers or cougars or something in the early 1990s. He had been brought back to Britain to be civilised and properly cared for. Of course he was a little older now, but it was unmistakably him. He wore only a loin cloth, and a soiled but fashionable t-shirt.
I extended my hand in friendly introduction. The feral child (I never did learn his name) sniffed my palm nervously, whimpered, and then urinated in the far corner of the lounge. This was apparently something of a favourite pastime for him.
Whilst he had been taught to walk upright, and could grasp and enjoy basic cable television, he was in all other areas distinctly feline in attitude and manner. In many ways he was the worst chap I ever roomed with. He was a messy eater, completely uneducated, and prone to defecating on the furniture. Of course you couldn't say anything because it was the way he’d been brought up. He was also incredibly poor company on the social scene--- unable to hold neither conversation, nor his drink.
But somehow I can still only look back fondly at my life with ‘the wild one.’ We were clearly both two very different people, but in time we developed something that was a vague approximation of a friendship. In my first few months at the flat he would try to eat me an average of twelve times a week. By the time I came to leave that was down to about three times a month.
I don’t know if he was sad to see me go, but as I was leaving he brought me a freshly dead bird and dropped it at my feet.
Wild One by Ben Hayward
He was my hero.
I had been stuck in a basement, come changing room, below a cabaret show. I had lined up several dozen questions with which I could get the interview started. How he first broke in to the music business. What his first gig was like. How his performance artist wife had gotten him off drugs. How he and other musicians had been a precursor to punk. How he felt about the direction that punk had taken.
I had been there for about quarter of an hour when I heard a door slam upstairs. Shortly afterwards a small, but well built, man turned up; followed by his assistant. He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and gritted his teeth.
“He's not doing the interview in here is he?”
Before I could catch my breath I was rushed upstairs. Eventually I was left in a cafeteria. Next door I could his band doing sound check, from what I could make out they sounded good.
Eventually he turned up, he had changed out of his casual clothes in to a tuxedo. The suit had clearly seen age; rips, fading and what could possibly have been semen marked it. He sat down and collected himself. I had placed a copy of his new record in front of me, it's an interpretation of Charle Dickens' Hard Times, I think it's a commentary on the Deus Ex Machina and how life can sometimes feel futile.
“If you don't mind I'd like to talk about your new record first.”
He made a kind of grunting admission.
“Could you tell me what inspired it, while you were writing it.”
He turns toward his assistant and nods, he's trying to hide some kind of snigger.
“Mister Rogers doesn't want to answer any personal questions today.”
I feel my heart sink as I leaf through my preparatory notes, there seems to be only one line of questioning left.
“How do you feel about being considered one of the precursors, the grandfathers, of punk?”
He grins and turns toward his assistant again, I nod I don't need to be told twice. I'll just talk to him about the album.
“I notice that you're not singing on this album, the new singer Grant has a very unique alto to his voice.”
“My producer Darren and I were at some nowhere folk festival when we found him. He was in one of the smaller tents, after twenty seconds we knew he was the best choice for the album going forward.
“What a wonderful voice” he added shortly after.
“Do you mind if I ask why you weren't singing though, surely your fans would want to hear you?”
“Mister Rogers doesn't want to answer any personal questions.”
I could see in her eyes that she was just trying to do her job, I quickly gathered my things and walked out the front door. As I was leaving I heard his band start playing.
At least it was sunny outside though.
I had been stuck in a basement, come changing room, below a cabaret show. I had lined up several dozen questions with which I could get the interview started. How he first broke in to the music business. What his first gig was like. How his performance artist wife had gotten him off drugs. How he and other musicians had been a precursor to punk. How he felt about the direction that punk had taken.
I had been there for about quarter of an hour when I heard a door slam upstairs. Shortly afterwards a small, but well built, man turned up; followed by his assistant. He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and gritted his teeth.
“He's not doing the interview in here is he?”
Before I could catch my breath I was rushed upstairs. Eventually I was left in a cafeteria. Next door I could his band doing sound check, from what I could make out they sounded good.
Eventually he turned up, he had changed out of his casual clothes in to a tuxedo. The suit had clearly seen age; rips, fading and what could possibly have been semen marked it. He sat down and collected himself. I had placed a copy of his new record in front of me, it's an interpretation of Charle Dickens' Hard Times, I think it's a commentary on the Deus Ex Machina and how life can sometimes feel futile.
“If you don't mind I'd like to talk about your new record first.”
He made a kind of grunting admission.
“Could you tell me what inspired it, while you were writing it.”
He turns toward his assistant and nods, he's trying to hide some kind of snigger.
“Mister Rogers doesn't want to answer any personal questions today.”
I feel my heart sink as I leaf through my preparatory notes, there seems to be only one line of questioning left.
“How do you feel about being considered one of the precursors, the grandfathers, of punk?”
He grins and turns toward his assistant again, I nod I don't need to be told twice. I'll just talk to him about the album.
“I notice that you're not singing on this album, the new singer Grant has a very unique alto to his voice.”
“My producer Darren and I were at some nowhere folk festival when we found him. He was in one of the smaller tents, after twenty seconds we knew he was the best choice for the album going forward.
“What a wonderful voice” he added shortly after.
“Do you mind if I ask why you weren't singing though, surely your fans would want to hear you?”
His assistant cleared her throat. I had no other questions. I sat there in silence. He grabbed his secretary by the shoulder and whispered something in her ear before quickly departing.
“Mister Rogers doesn't want to answer any personal questions.”
I could see in her eyes that she was just trying to do her job, I quickly gathered my things and walked out the front door. As I was leaving I heard his band start playing.
At least it was sunny outside though.
Wild One by Lesley Whyte
"Roll up, roll up! See the amazing Wolf Boy! Raised by wolves in deepest Asia, he never saw another human until the age of fourteen! Come on, come on, see him in his natural habitat. Don't be frightened, little girl! He doesn't bite, and if he does, it's not as bad as his family!"
It went on and on for hours. I growled and snarled and paced around the enclosure on my hands and knees, scuffing the skin on the twig-strewn floor. Waves and waves of people crowding into the tent, their cameras flashing in my face, their rubbish glancing off my skin. Freezing in the winter, close and claustrophobic in the summer. Screaming children, sulking teenagers, grumpy parents. The booming voice of Fat Ralph as he drew punters to my raggedy red and gold tent. On and on it went.
To be honest, it was always a relief to get out of there and check my Facebook messages.
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