This tale is not meant to evoke sympathy – just another memory, a recollection that, with the benefit of hindsight, carries a certain wry amusement. Perhaps I deserved it.
Stepping into the shower the other day, I felt the cascade of steaming water wash over me, coaxing a sigh from deep within, whispered aloud without a thought: “That’s so nice.” But as the water reached the tender inner thigh of my right leg, I flinched. Glancing down, I noticed an angry-looking scratch. I hadn’t the faintest idea how it got there.
The sting was familiar, though less intense than another time, another place. Yet it was potent enough to jolt me back to a long-buried memory, where comfort and warmth were nothing but dreams amidst far more hostile elements.
It was autumn, and the winds were biting and capricious, sending litter and leaves tumbling in aimless, unchoreographed dances. The sun, though it made the odd appearance, was weak, its summer warmth now a distant memory. My golden wheat fields, once shimmering under endless blue skies, lay dark and barren, ploughed into near-perfect furrows of damp earth. They offered no solace, but if I squinted just right, I could summon echoes of sun-drenched days filled with T-shirts, hay bales, and daring leaps from the old lightning tree into soft, golden ditches. All of it gone – swept away as the world braced for winter’s chill.
The rain, like the wind, was sporadic and mean-spirited, never committing to a thorough drenching but content to spit and splatter just enough to dampen grass, thin hedgerows, and transform country paths into muddy quagmires. It was a filthy season, one that coaxed mud from the earth and delighted children who would squelch about in Wellington boots, collecting grime as though it were treasure. Camps were no longer built in open fields but hidden beneath heavy branches and in other sheltered nooks.
My own tolerance for cold was abysmal – I was no hardy soul. But the call of imaginary worlds and the lure of adventure overpowered the goosebumps and numbing fingers. The older boys, however, were a different breed. On the cusp of adolescence, they were tougher, more resilient, and had long since shed childish games for more complicated pursuits. But they were still out there, roaming the countryside, and to my eight-year-old eyes, they were titans – untouchable, fascinating.
I stumbled upon them one afternoon at the edge of the wheat field near the golf course, a motley crew of rough-and-tumble lads, a good five years my senior. Strangers to my village, they intrigued me, and when they didn’t shoo me away, I tagged along, starry-eyed at their bravado.
One of them offered me a ride on his bicycle, and we sped off over potholed tracks and winding paths, the world blurring around us. It felt like an odyssey. We roamed aimlessly, climbing trees, wrestling in the mud, hurling insults, and swearing as only teenagers can. Time drifted, and with it, the warmth of the day. My worn-out wellies were waterlogged, my feet freezing. I longed for home, for a hot fire and dry clothes.
But it was clear there would be no ride back. The boys had tired of me; my novelty had worn off. They drifted away, and I realised with a sinking feeling that I was being left behind. Panic flared, followed by anger. I hurled a stone in a fit of frustration, striking the back of the boy I liked least. It was foolish, of course, but anger clouded my judgement.
They turned as one, a pack of wolves catching the scent of wounded prey. In that moment, their faces twisted into cruel masks, their eyes bright with a shared, feral excitement. I stood no chance. They descended upon me, feeding off each others’ brutality. Kicks and punches rained down; my defiant snarls quickly dissolved into panicked yelps. Outnumbered and overpowered, my fury melted into helpless lethargy.
But they weren’t content merely to prove their dominance. There was sport to be had. In a feverish display of mob mentality, they stripped me bare – clothes, boots, even my socks – before grabbing my limbs and swinging me back and forth like a ragdoll.
Once, twice, and then they let go.
I sailed through the air, helpless, and crashed into a dense, wicked bush. It was a thicket of cruel thorns, each needle-like barb slicing into my exposed flesh, setting my skin alight with a thousand tiny fires. I was flayed alive by nature itself.
They left me there, broken and sobbing, tangled in the barbed embrace of the bush. Every movement drew fresh blood and renewed agony. Eventually, sheer desperation propelled me out, but not without leaving strips of skin behind. Naked, freezing, and bleeding, I crawled through the mud to find my discarded clothes. My boots and socks were gone – trophies, no doubt, of their triumph.
The journey home was a trial of endurance. Each step was a knife against my raw soles, the cold wind gnawing at my bones. By the time I reached my door, I was a shivering wretch, trembling so violently my teeth chattered like a skeleton’s dance.
I don’t remember much of the days that followed, except for the fever that gripped me, the bouts of nausea that left me faint, and the hazy comfort of bed rest. There were hushed murmurs of sympathy, gentle hands that cleaned my wounds, and a cocoon of warmth in which to recover.
And through it all, I wondered at the cruelty of boys who were almost men, at the pack instinct that drove them to savagery. They had feasted on my humiliation, revelled in my pain. I never saw them again.
Sometimes, in the quiet steam of a hot shower, a scratch will sting just so, and I am pulled back to that bitter autumn day. The sting is a ghost, a whisper of barbed memories, lingering just beneath the skin.
Wording 