I’m going to describe a person, and I’m going to describe them in the only way I think they’d describe themselves – methodically and logically. From bottom, to top.
Two feet spaced perfectly shoulder width apart stand in two neatly polished black laced shoes. The laces have been left in a perfect figure-of-eight bow, sitting exactly two centimetres from the ground on the left, and the same two centimetres on the right. The shoe-lace knot is a newly mastered skill and one that is taken most seriously. A gently worn away patch on the living room mat is a quiet reminder of the important and time-consuming ritual of inserting one’s foot and checking the laces are tight enough, over and over.
A slim hand firmly grips the handle of a school bag. Practical and purposeful in every sense, this bag is A4-sized and fits everything just so. Black and simple, this piece of carrying equipment is everything it ought to be and nothing unnecessarily more. This school bag: equipped with safety torch, each zip aligned with the next to the most acute degree, contains three books which have been carefully placed, descending in height order.
There was trauma last week. The zip broke on his trousers after the six-minute routine of getting dressed and tugging at the zip to ensure they were absolutely on properly finally took its toll. That was the second pair in three weeks – mum is tearing her hair out.
The over-sized coat, navy with luminous stripes to keep him safe. The chewed cuffs, chewed as a method of coping, of calming, taste of sodden waterproof fabric. This is the taste of unnerving social situations, of scary unknown places and constant questioning.
The grin and uncontrollable and excessive laughter are beyond charming because you won’t meet a more charming boy. You soon realise there’s a glaze over his eyes – he’s cracked the code to something funny.
He remains silent towards me because he prefers it that way. It’s nothing personal. I know that by now. I know what he’s doing; he knows what he’s doing; he knows that I know what he’s doing. Obviously.
You must understand, this routine is well-practised, another feature of the well-oiled mechanics of our home.
The familiar blare of the minibus horn toots. The well-versed dramatic hurry ensures. He’s not really running late. None of us could possibly allow for that as we all know it is no easy process leaving the house. He crosses the threshold of familiarity to the unnerving unknown. But he knows it’s only 7.25 hours until he can return.
Two blue eyes stare back at you as they try to figure you out; they stare slightly to the left of your face. This is an acknowledgement of your presence, but it allows for some space to frantically piece together the next confusing and unnecessary question you are inevitably about to ask.
And then he is gone. iPad charging quietly in the corner, patiently waiting. Empty cereal bowl with the abused shreds of muesli discarded just perfectly on the fifth panel of the ten-panel draining board, one hand’s width from the left of the taps; one hand’s width from the right. The door is locked and checked twenty-one times in between twenty-one blinks. Why twenty-one? Because it is just so.
Creative Non Fiction Writing at Reading 