Another black eye, and my nose pissing blood again; just one more fucking day in paradise. I have a right to be angry, I have always been angry. Angry at my mother for letting a monster ruin us, at Tommy for breaking my world open wide, and at Grace for not being as angry as me. I can’t look in the mirror these days, well what part of the mirror I haven’t smashed the fuck out of in one of my temperamental rages. At least I have an understanding cellmate in Henry. Henry has lived with this for as long as he can remember. I must have scared the living shit out of him as a teenager; his perfect hair, perfect mother, perfect little brother, perfect stepsister, perfect Dad, and my perfect Dad all cocooning him as he enjoyed the wonders of his pathetic prepubescent world, broken up by me throwing, smashing and hurling everything that I could reach. I remember slicing Dad’s face open with a shard of a broken beer bottle at the age of thirteen. Henry, about nine years old, wept into Toni’s arms as Dad stood there calmly with blood sliding down his left cheek, simmering with anger, calm as a lake. Henry, the little fanny, was screaming “Don’t hurt Simon, don’t hurt our Dad.” I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, and remind him that he was my fucking Dad. Now we need each other.
Earlier when I had fought another one of Tommy’s faggot-ass-fuckers and had returned sporting these new trophies, Henry jumped off the bed and found the old flannel he kept for just such an occasion. I love Henry like a brother should, I am proud of him, We are here for what we did together, neither of us have asked forgiveness, nor do we want penance for our sins; we just exist in a world where we took a stand and have essentially been martyred for it. We shared bedrooms as kids, but never one so small. Eight foot by eight foot, stone from floor to ceiling, apart from the steel door opening to the enclosed representative of the rest of our world. I never thought Henry would survive, but the little blonde dumpling lost his fat and grew into a man, a man of principle, and the best little brother that I could have. Well, there is Joey I suppose.
I haven’t seen him in a while, I know that he talks to Grace, and Grace talks to us, so snippets of vague information filters through and we hear of plans, and we hear of uprisings. He still carries the torch and that is good enough for me. It must fucking hurt Lewis that he couldn’t have all of Dad’s brood locked up in here taking the beatings of pedophiles and rapists, most of which were a firm part of Lewis’ own entourage for many a year. Dad was certainly something of a pain in Lewis’ ass for many years, and I guess he continued to be until the poor old fucker began to lose his memory.
Do you know what, I am bitter for being left behind? I got stuck in her with Henry, whilst Joey and Grace are out there trying to turn this damned stupid situation on its head. I should not have let it happened. It’s amazing the amount of people who told my Dad to calm down thirty years ago, are all shaking their heads at the way their country has been butt-fucked saying things like: “That Simon guy was absolutely right.” Well maybe you should have listened you dumb-fuck-idiots.
The lights are to be out in fifteen minutes. Henry is already turning softly into his pillow and I am wide awake with a sore nose and a stiff jaw. It seems all I ever think about in the quiet hours now is my Dad. I loved that stubborn old fucker, and I should have listened. Instead I took everything head on, I got violent, I used my anger, and I used my pain trying to take on a world that dwarfed me. It began when I was five, but it exploded really in 2022. I was fifteen. My name is Cameron.