Skip to main content

The terror of my nights.


The terror started when I heard him half whisper “Oi, Jew boy, get over here.” my heart stopped momentarily and then rapidly thumped in my chest, I crawled along my bed towards his bed; I had to avoid the floor as he had opened the sash window at the bottom and he told me a Fox could easily climb into the bedroom and hide under any of the beds in the room. They did that so they could pounce on their prey. I looked up at the Bat clinging to the window waiting to come in and bite me. I hopped and jumped across to his bed just in case the Fox could get me by the leg or foot and bite me and climbed into his bed. I lay with my back towards his chest curled into a foetal ball. He tugged my legs downwards so I had to lay flat on my side and pulled me closer into his chest. He put his fingers up his anus so that they smelt of faeces. Then he put his faeces smelling fingers up my nose and rubbed them around my nose and face. He put his arm tightly around my neck and locked me into a headlock. I could hear the squab pigeon he had hidden in a cardboard box under the bed scratching away and slowly dying like I was. I could smell his faeces, his acrid urine smelling sheet, his body odour and his fetid breath as he held onto me in the ever tightening headlock. His other hand quickly moved down to my crotch and pulled my barely formed, eleven year old testicles up over my penis and whispered “You’re like a little girl now.” Then I felt his soft penis slide between my legs and he began rubbing it against my perineum, backwards and forwards it went. His penis rapidly got harder and harder. I could feel him breathing against my neck, his rank breath mixed with the smell of his urine and his faeces. I conjured up a Paisley print behind my eyes; I made the pattern multiply and then made it shrink smaller and smaller until my whole head was filled with the tiny Paisley print, then I made the pattern swirl and revolve behind my eyes. Why hadn’t God listened to me and made him die when he was ill?  I had hid in the cupboard at the top of the stairs when he was ill and prayed that he would die. The Paisley swirled around behind my eyes and filled my vision. I could still smell his urine, his faeces, his body odour and his fetid breath puffing against my neck as his penis moved backwards and forwards with his hips. His penis was rubbing against my anus and perineum as I made the Paisley print swirl and fill my head. Then I felt the bump I was waiting for and I had floated away and upwards and now I was looking down on my body; I was above me in the bed and near the ceiling. I couldn’t smell the urine, his faeces, his body odour and his fetid breath anymore.  I couldn’t feel his erect penis rubbing along my perineum and anus. I couldn’t feel his arm around my neck. I couldn’t feel his hand clutching my testicles and pulling them over my penis. I couldn’t feel anything. I was free and safe. I watched him jolt and jerk as I floated above the bed and watched as his grip on my neck tightened and his fetid breath became more rapid. I began to smell his urine and his faeces and body odour again. I was back in his bed. I could feel his breath on my neck and somehow he had managed to spit between my legs. How could his head be next to mine and yet he had managed to spit down there between my legs? Then I felt him move and his foot was planted in the small of my back and then he violently pushed me onto the floor and out of his bed to where the Fox could get me. I was terrified of the Fox. I looked back at the Bat on the window then I hopped skipped and jumped back to my bed with his spit running down my legs. I couldn’t let the Fox get me. I couldn’t let the Bat bite me. Bats knew when you were scared; they could smell it; he had told me that. I climbed into my cold bed and curled up into a ball and summoned up the Paisley print again and tried to sleep. I rarely got any sleep in case the Fox or the Bat attacked me.  I guess that’s why my teacher had written in a school report “David must try and take that worried look off his face.” It was always a fitful sleep until the horror of a new day dawned.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Protein Man of Oxford Street- Stanley Owen Green.

I wrote this Obituary piece for The Guardian about Stanley Green while I was an undergraduate at Goldsmiths' College.  I contacted The Guardian and asked them if I could submit it for publication. It was sent off to them and I waited in eager anticipation for their reply. It was published on Wednesday January 26th 1994,   the Editor  made no changes or additions except by adding some photographs (the photographs used here are later additions by me): "A Consuming Passion.... Stanley Owen Green who has died aged aged 78, was that tall thin man with steel-rimmed glasses who marched it seemed for an eternity up and down London's Oxford Street. It was his banner that made him famous, held high above his head and proclaiming "LESS LUST FROM PROTEIN" in large white letters. Underneath the banner he endured the taunts of sticky schoolchildren and the spittle of office workers alike, to bring his unique, indeed puzzling message to the people of London. He later wate

The Roswell Returns

“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” As those words echoed around Mission Control in Houston a round of spontaneous applause broke out across the site and in the control room. There were yelps and hollers of triumph echoing around the whole of NASA that momentous day in July 1969. In the Command Module Michael Collins was monitoring the vital controls that kept it orbiting the Moon. He flipped the carbon dioxide uptake switch, looked at the battery charge meters, oxygen levels and closely watched the radar screen. He sat back in his flight chair and watched the instrumentation flick and whirr. He daren’t relax, he didn’t relax at all. He paid great attention to the radar screen as he was commanded to. He had to monitor it for spooks, intruders or ghosts. He knew he was looking for Foo Fighters. They did show up on radar, aircrews had confirmed that as fact. It was how fast they appeared and disappeared that threw most pilots. There had been warnings by the

Christmas Gothic - The Sojourn of The Soul

As the man came in from work, he looked on the hall table as he did every night, ostensibly for any letters that had been delivered that day. There were none that day. There was, however, a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. The label on it was addressed to him, ‘To Harry, With Love’ it read. It looked like his wife had bought him a book, which was unusual for her to even go into a book shop let alone buy him a book. He picked it up and felt its weight it was quite a weighty tome. He unwrapped the book and looked at the title: A Goode Wyfe: The Sojourn Of The Soul. He noted the archaic spelling of the title; she had chosen well. It looked very interesting and was certainly very old, the leather binding and the gold lettering on the spine and cover gave that away. It was well thumbed too and the pages fell open on their own.   He looked at the imprint, last imprint 1818, first imprint 1313. He did a quick sum in his head, those two dates added together made 3131, a mirror image of t