Tom woke up to his hand burning.
*
“Can you pass the peeeeas pleeeease” chuckled Mary.
“Now Mary, you must be very nice to your brother. He’s going through a tough time at the moment aren’t you baby” said their mother.
Tom grunted and walked off, remarking he wasn’t hungry, before his mother could tell him again, ‘You must eat something ’.
Tom sat on his bed and looked down at his bandaged hand. Annoyed he’d done it punching a wall and not the boys making his life hell. High school was different he’d been told, new people, new start. No nicknames and sly kicks when the teacher wasn’t looking and even when they were sometimes.
He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. Tom thought about doing it with a toaster in the bath, like he’d heard about once. However, Danny told everyone in R.E class about how he dropped a glass of water on his and instead of making a big bang it fused and shut off. ‘To stop people doing silly things’ Danny’s mum had said. Tom hated bathes anyway and thought ‘what a way to be found’.
With the absence of hooks and a high ceiling, that was off too. You could also get that one wrong he’d read online, be paralysed for the rest of your life. He couldn’t do that to his family as much as he hated them.
Pill’s were tricky. The doctor’s anti-depressants weren’t strong enough and they made him sick. The thought of being found in is very own pool of unhappiness, alive, was too much to stomach. Tom felt a push on his bladder and flashed opened his eyes, getting up to go to the toilet. Small tasks that keep you going seemed pointless to him and he walked out not bothering to flush or wash.
He contemplated his other options for a while and laughed out loud. Living, he thought, was his very own suicide it seemed.
“It is so nice to hear you laughing again honey, mummy worries when you come home with hands like that” said his mother appearing at his door, bending to kiss him on the head.
Tom grunted again and rolled over. He stared at the prayer candle the vicar had given him on Sunday, locking eyes with a carved out Jesus drawn in black wax. ‘Even he had troubles’ the vicar had reassured him. Reaching out to retrieve it, he strained his bad hand and let out a yelp. The matches in his pocket would do, since planning to start smoking hadn’t got off the ground yet.
Lifting his body up he bent to reach the candle, gazing at it up close. The vicar told him to pray with it and he’d know Tom was doing this and pray back. Tom wasn’t religious but lit it anyway. It was something to watch. It’s immediate destruction and power, fascinated him.
He leant back and closed his eyes. Tears drifted down and felt warm on his cheeks. The pills wouldn’t work as long as the kicking, name calling and punching were happening he knew. Lifting his eyelids and he grabbed the brown chunky bottle with his name on and threw it at the wall.
“Night smelly” said Mary giggling.
“Mary! I heard that, apologise now!” said their mother.
But she wouldn’t and Tom shut his eyes again and fell into a sleep he hoped to get stuck in.
Five in the morning, Tom awoke to the smell of burning. His bandage lay balancing on Jesus’ face, burning in unison. Tom jumped up and ran to the bathroom. Hesitating he dangled his burning bandage over the sink.
‘This is it’ he thought. Tom began crying and returned to his bedroom. Laid back and watched it burn.
