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paralysis-comic · 5 years

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yourocsbackstory week 1: parents

|| @yourocsbackstory ||

gettin this in niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice and early. tw for vaguely implied child abuse

Baby Blues Act 1, or Gina Takes A Deep Dive

You’ve come to use the phrase “my dad” interchangeably for them both now.

As always, you’re never sure how confusing it is for anyone who’s not, for example, John or Diane; but you maintain that the word for man who raised you and man who (allegedly) had a part in creating you are, at least in English, one and the same. ‘Stepdad’ sounds a bit…

Uptight?

Stilted?

Crass?

No, you reserve stepdad for teachers and police officers. Or – in times where you feel the need to throw all mention of long-dead folks out the window and focus on the more-recently-dead – when mum’s boyfriend is too many syllables to fit into one conc- ah.

No, no, put it down. No, on the sofa. Now stand up. Never mind if you look like Bambi on the ice, no one’s here. Mum’s at work, Dad’s in America, fuck knows where John is, Dad’s in America, remember? Not identifying bodies, not being questioned, not (FUCK!!!!!!) holding this in front of you.

Now stand up.

Pick it up.

Sit down.

Breathe.

Actually, no, get the other one.

You’ve never properly looked through it.

What did you come here for again?

The first one is a bit tatty. That’s how it’s always been. Black, red corners, looks like a photo album you’d see on TV, like in The Simpsons or something. Wait, isn’t that how something from 90’s America should look?

On the inside cover, a tiny “1980-1999” in the top left corner, a normal-sized “To Mimi & Nate, happy anniversary!!!! love Glad & Atticus” (ugh) and a large cut-out message of general condolence that you never bother to read.

And on the first page, before the album proper, two portrait photos taped in.

On the left, in black and white, a thin teenage boy in a suit, and an old lady in a long dress and headscarf. You flip it up, as careful as you’re physically able. There’s some Russian on the back, then some Welsh in the same handwriting. You know neither. Shit. Fuck– And below it, what looks to be the English counterpart:

Just after Sam’s Bar Mitzvah. Never went to another one. Only photo I’ve got of her. D x

You wish you’d had a Bar Mitzvah. Ceri did, but Auntie Lettice didn’t let you go.

Ceri still keeps asking you why.

You bite your nail. God, if you get this emotional over every one, you’ll be here forever. And you can’t even remember why you got them down in the first place. The one on the right, in full 90’s colour, that’s your dad and some guy you don’t know. No one’s told you about him yet. He’s sitting on your dad’s lap, attempting to drum, like you used to do to Charles. It looks professionally done, like a photo of Queen. Blurry hands in the foreground and all. Oh, you never noticed Cadz there at the piano. Adorable.

Theres a note under it. All in English, thank fuck.

Hello boys, found this when I was rummaging around in Mikey’s room, thought you’d like to have it. Give my love to Althea and the kids. Love from Sue xxx

You have never heard those names in your life, although now you’re never sure what you mean by that. It may well be that you and John (and Beth and Gel and Ronnie and Llew and Renée and Meic (and Hector)) have been sat down and told all of this in great detail. You try not to let the name Sue get in your head. You try and think nice thoughts. You don’t have a lot of nice thoughts at this time of year.

You’re not fussed with most of these. You were once, before the novelty of having one very famous, very dead parent wore off for the second time.

The ones at the beginning, you got bored of those ages ago. There’s only so many times you can see a photo on tumblr and still want to reblog it. @fuckyeahgoosnargh never got back to you when you told her to take them down. You like the way their hair looks — Cadz in pigtails, your dad with a vague approximation of Brian May. Reminds you of you, in a mad way.

Some more early ones. The three of them, the four of them, the funeral, the three of them again.

Then a few from gigs. They don’t impress you much. Sure, Cadz is a serviceable musician – he did give you your first banjo, after all – but as a frontman? Come on. And you wish they’d have focused in on one of the others; between the aggressive drummer with black greasepaint over his eyes (still in a suit, by the way) and the tiny guitarist in drag (think John Travolta, not Ru Paul), you can see why you and John turned out the way you did.

The ones in the graveyard are your favourite. Most of them are in black and white, which you’re not a fan of, but there’s one of the whole band, in colour: your dad, Cadz, the woman with the drawn on eyebrows, that Mikey guy, your other dad (he had drawn on eyebrows as well in those days, and his hair was straightened and slicked back), and some other bloke. He kinda looks like your dad but with real eyebrows. Maybe thats the Uncle Gaylord that Nana was on about. He’s not in any of the other photos. Gotta ask her what happened to him next time you see her. If you see her.

Some of your dad and Auntie Al. You like the one of him in the front doorway with the sun coming through, looking over his shoulder at all the boxes on the floor. You wonder why they split up. You wonder– oh, now you remember why youre here. All the ones of Ronnie and Llew must be in another album. Shit.

The next ones are of him in hospital. You’ve no desire to know what was wrong with him – medical stuff makes you cringe now – but he’s very pale and thin, and so is his hair. He looks way too young to be totally grey, even as haggard as he is. At least, with the curl back in, he doesnt look too dishevelled, if you disregard the missing eyebrows. There were ones of Mikey in hospital earlier, but you skipped past those. You don’t want to think about him anymore.

A lot of magazine and newspaper clippings. You’ve read them all before. You’re not in the right mood to read them again, but you do look at the pictures. As you turn the page, a newer and shinier piece of paper falls out. It’s from that one notebook article about you, with the covers of your and your dad’s first (only) solo singles. You’re making the exact same face. You suppose the effect would have been lost now, what with your bleached hair and ruined nose.

Then some of your parents — all four of them. They must have met at the same time. The ones that aren’t in Canada (you don’t need to see those, there’s enough of them on the walls) are in various parts of Wales: Great-Nain and Great-Taid’s village in Glamorgan, Nana’s house in cardiff (not many of those), John’s place, the big house you sometimes call home, the normal-sized house you currently call– huh.

It ends there.

gina: so yeah idk

diane: dude

diane: you know you were just away for 3 hours

diane what the heck were you doing

gina is typing…

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paralysis-comic · 5 years

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yourocsbackstory week 3: education

@yourocsbackstory || [read on wattpad]

so this ones kinda long huh. tw for ableism, self injurious behaviour, just a lot of crying

But Not Too Familiar (Baby Blues: Interlude)

September 2009

The word school has been fucking you up for a while now. Mum says that’s just how school is. Dad says she’s wrong.

He came into your horrible little room one evening and said he was very sorry for not being a good dad, that he’d promised your previous dad to do a better job, that he would show that bastard Atticus, that he’d get you through school no matter what, all of it, right up to uni. You didn’t really know what uni was.

John said school is designed to make you think you’re meant to be learning French and Geography and stuff, when they’re really sorting you into popular, unpopular or medium. The medium ones, he said, make the best adults. He said occasionally, you get these edge cases—kids who have so many friends that they can’t imagine anyone not liking them, and the ones who don’t have any so no one bothers trying to find them some—those, he said, never last. He wrote all this out on a piece of A5 paper in his own horrible little room, while writing at your mutual parents about things that nine-year-olds don’t concern themselves with.

He also told you not to bother with uni.

•

And he says it again as he pauses outside the gates.

You look around. Ysgol Blodeuwedd Tudur—or Blodeuwedd Tudor Primary School And Nursery, as it says underneath—is bigger and shinier than you imagined. John’s staring at it too. Mum sort of shepherds you both through (is it shepherding if you’re both willing to go? And if theres only two of you?). You can’t see her face from where you are, but she sounds weird, both crosser and gentler. You stop for a second and turn around. She’s got her hand on John’s shoulder and keeps glancing at the other mums.

You’re not yet sure who you’re supposed to know and who you’re not. Maybe the girls who just came out from amongst them and are hugging you. They have nice vibes, rather than the ok and oh no vibes that everyone else has. According to their book bags, they are Cerys Thomas and Louise Yang. They are decent.

The sound of tiny little footsteps brings your attention away from them. You look up to see a stocky, curly haired boy sort of skid to a halt beside you. He raises his arms to wrap them around your neck, then stops.

“Do you remember me?”

You look down. You do remember Diane. Kind of. You don’t remember his middle name, his birthday or his favourite colour, but still…

“I remember you’re my best friend.”

He goes blank for a second, then he hugs you harder then you’ve ever been hugged in your life this year.

“We missed you SO MUCH Mrs Davies was being REALLY MEAN they haven’t changed the REGISTER yet and we thought you moved SCHOOLS—“

“Son, we don’t talk about that in public. And why don’t you let go of Iffy, you’re wobbling her crutches.”

He rearranges his arms into a position more accommodating to your unipedality.

You’re having a hard time thinking; partly from the dread-induced skeletal inertia and enteral pain, partly because there are at least five conversations going on around you (four spoken, one written). John holds this morning’s piece of paper in your direction.

she thinks letting me stay over therell make her look like a bad mother

any idea why she touched me like that? almost rather her wheeling me herself

You read it a few times (sometimes his handwriting is too neat) and shrug. You can’t talk in front of all these people and, well, you can’t write in front of anyone. Before you can dwell on how you’re gonna get through Year 5 if you can’t write, he pulls you over to the patch of concrete by the main doors. Mum hurries after you. She tells him off very quietly while you steal his headphones. He says you used to do that every day before he moved to London. You’re not sure about his taste in music.

•

In Year 1, no one was sure whether you were Iphigenia St. David or Iphigenia Richard or Iphigenia Henderson, so they put you at the top of the register. In Year 5, that means you sit right by the door, on a table with Stacey Ashton, Calum Beddoes, Dai Borgstein and Tonya Bufton. It’s the only table here with 5 seats instead of 4.

And it’s right by Mrs Davies’s desk.

She’s doing the register silently, so no one has to say why Gellert and Harvey and Suzie and Hector aren’t here. Sometimes she looks up sharply at you and raises her eyebrows in a way that says you should be focusing on doing your mental maths. Occasionally she says, “Do you want anything?” in a way that says you shouldn’t be wanting anything at all, no, not you, the girl who could walk and talk and write just fine in Year 4, what makes my class any different, Gina?

But the paper in front of you is evading you right now. Actually, no, it’s not the paper, it’s the white noise of 23 nine-year-olds (and Stacey) not quite whispering, it’s Mrs Davies clickiticlackiting on word or whatever, it’s stacey asking you if you need any help in that loud, over-enunciated way that girls whose birthdays are in September have, it’s the girls on the next table gossiping with Tonya, it’s Tonya turning to look at you and looking back at them and laughing, it’s Calum asking you why you can call Dai Diane and he can’t, it’s everyone calling you Gina, it’s not remembering what your name is meant to be, it’s everything else in your head that’s not letting the mental maths in, it’s everyone telling you things that apparently happened, things that you did, horrible things, things that will keep you up at night for years, it’s Calum snapping his pencil because he knows it makes you cry, it’s the feeling like you’re falling, and you might well be, who gives a f—

It’s Mrs Davies clicking her fingers in front of your face.

Everyone’s staring at you. You don’t move. You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

“Well?”

You don’t answer. Partly because no, you’re not well, anyone can see that, but mostly because… you have no idea what she’s asked of you.

“You know what perimeter is, Gina. D’you want to tell me?”

OK, sure, yeah, you know what a perimeter is. You know how to spell it, you know how to work it out, you know the relationship between it and area (John told you), you—

Maybe you don’t know what perimeter is.

And that’s not the voice she uses with Stacey. Or Tonya. Or anyone else. That’s not even the voice she used in assembly, when all the Key Stage 1 kids were there. That’s the voice that…

Fuck.

“No. Don’t.”

You try and let the sound of your breathing take over the giggling and the eyes upon you, and it kind of works because you’re breathing so loudly. Every muscle in your body is tensed to stop you rocking back and forth.

Or worse.

“Look at me.”

Huh? No. No, you’re not doing that.

“Gina.”

And that’s not your name. You don’t have a name anymore.

Something happens right by your ear, but you can’t identify it amongst everything else. Your eyes squinch shut and for a moment you can see her leaning over you.

You go cold.

You whimper slightly, pulling away, expecting your head to hit metal but theres nothing there. No, god, don’t fall, don’t-

You’re jerked forward, upright. You open your eyes to make sure you’re definitely in the classroom. There’s a voice to your right.

“Mr Lloyd never did that.”

“Well, I’m not Mr Lloyd.”

The hand around your left bicep moves to raise your head.

“Look at me.”

Your head comes up, and you look at her.

And now you are screaming.

“No. we don’t do that.”

You wrench your head to the right to look at Diane, but you can’t look at him, so you stare at the wall like you’re looking for something very specific on the Roald Dahl poster. The wall is too white and too far away. It hurts like hell.

Diane moves somewhat into view. He’s a bit close, bless him, but the blurry shape of his face and hair are easier on your healing eye.

He looks up at Mrs Davies (still shouting, but you’re trying to block her out) and moves away with a start. You can see his expression more clearly now; he’s worried, really worried, but you can’t work out why exactly. No one else seems to be.

After a moment of dithering, he gingerly takes hold of Mrs Davies’s left hand and prises her index finger off you. Something moves in your peripheral vision and you instinctively look back at her. She snatches away her hand, gouging her fingers into your flimsy little arm, feeling the bone. The force almost launches you at Calum. She lunges at Diane with what can only be described as teacherly incredulity.

“Uh-“

That noise. It’s familiar, but you can’t place it. It reminds you of the noise your dad makes when you start crying, but scary. Like she wants to collect more tears from you, not wipe them away. Well, you’re crying now. Is that what she wants?

“Dai?”

Some of the other kids do that fake-gasp-and-real-titter that kids are wont to do when someone’s properly getting what for. A few of them gasp for real, the ones in the quagmire between friend and stranger that bullies so often occupy, the ones that have forgotten that Diane isn’t his real name. Matthew Powell says they’ll do you for saying that to a pupil. Stacey asks if you’re alright again. You certainly don’t look alright—you’re shivering all over now and you’re not sure why. Diane starts crying as well.

Mrs Davies takes her hands off you and frowns at him.

“We don’t need that from you, Dai.”

All the tension from being grasped drains out of you and you flop down onto the table. You try to convince yourself that you’re somewhere else, but you don’t have enough memories of nice places yet. You’re having the same overwhelming sadness as you did when you first got home, but you’re too tired to cry now. Diane isn’t.

You want to comfort him, but Stacey is doing that already. She doesn’t look very good at it; he’s crying in a different way and he keeps reaching out to hold your hand. Mrs Davies says not to give you any attention.

You pretend there’s no one in the room except you and him.

He says your name. Maybe he wants you to look at his face again. You try, because you want him to know you’re alright, and then maybe he’ll be alright too.

But god, you can’t. You just can’t.

He raises his hand again, and Stacey grabs it back.

“No,” she says.

You go cold again.

For fuck��s sake.

•

Mrs Davies sits down at her desk and tells everyone to be quiet and do their work and to Not Give You Any Attention. Even Stacey. Even when you’re making all this noise. And, for the first time today, you remember why you are.

And you don’t fucking like it.

Diane nudges you and gestures to his worksheet. The old John Fairfax manoeuvre.

do you want me to tell her ?

You nod. He wipes the tears of his face and puts his hand up. How does he compose himself so fast?

A few minutes later, you look out the window to the hall. You’re still crying and shivering, so Stacey tries to pull you back down. Diane and Mrs Davies are heading towards reception. A thought occurs to you. Calum grabs one of your crutches and you fall against the bookcase. Mrs Davies turns around, sees you and starts shrieking at you for some reason. You look at Diane and gesture to the Year 1 class as much as you can with no free hands. He gets it.

When Mrs Davies gets to you, she runs her hands down her face, makes a frustrated noise, and drags you out into the hall. You drop your crutches. She makes you sit down (you can’t get back up on your own), puts your worksheet in your left hand (you don’t have a thumb on that hand) and your pencil in your right hand (you’re left handed). She goes back into the classroom. She throws your crutches in your general direction. She slams the door. Fuck, it’s really gonna be like this every day, isn’t it?

You’re really crying now. Your throat has been hurting for quite a while. When you were in the classroom, it hurt to swallow, and now you can’t even feel yourself swallowing. Especially with your prosthetic tongue. and you’re tired as fuck.

You wait for Nesta to come out of Class 1, or at least for Diane to come back. Anyone. There’s a clock at the far end of the hall, but its too far away to see. Whatever. Time is a mystery to you anyway.

All this fear is making you feel like you’re about to both hurl and shit yourself—and to be honest, you wouldn’t really care if you did. You look down at yourself. At your hands. For a second, you swear you’re in hospital again. You emit a blood curdling scream and throw yourself to the side like you normally do, but instead of a mattress or a rail or thin air, there’s just floor.

You see legs.

Nesta says a long something to Diane while you continue to scream, and he starts to go inside. He pauses and turns around. Nesta takes out her notebook, scribbles some stuff down and gives it to him. Hey, you recognise that notebook. While he’s gone, you start to really miss him. You snuggle up to him when he comes back. You stay like that while Nesta goes to reception. You calm down a bit. Mrs jones comes out with her and stalks over to you, telling you to get up. She shuts up when she notices your missing leg and the bruise on your face. She says she doesn’t think you’ve got a concussion, but she’s not sure. Nesta says your dad’s coming to pick you up.

You don’t think school is meant to be like this.

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