Read Online Grow Up by Ben Brooks - Free Book Online
Authors: Ben Brooks
Tags: Contemporary
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mortgage to buy it and as a result they have had to do the renovations themselves and switch from straight cigarettes to rolling tobacco. Her dad is plump and pink and her mum suffers from a disorder that means that she is really fucking weird. They both wear Crocs and smell of rosemary.
Sometimes her mum puts wine in the kettle. Sometimes she urinates in the garden and announces that she is encouraging the grass.
We are sat in her basement with a pot of tea between us. Steam is tentatively curling out of the spout, as though the air is an enemy castle. Tenaya has stopped crying but is looking down into her tea. I imagine touching her eyelids and feeling that they are still damp.
âI canât believe sheâs gone,â she says.
I donât say anything. I do believe it because killing yourself is very easy. Even a dog could do it.
Mum had a talk with me about suicide once. I think this is because Mum sometimes experiences depressive mood swings and she is worried that they have been genetically passed down to me. The only trait I have inherited from my mother is cynicism. She told me, âNever kill yourself, it is a selfish thing to do.â I told her it was selfish of her to ban suicide because at some point in my life I may be subject to unbearable physical or emotional pain. She looked upset so I placed my hand on her shoulder and told her that I am currently not experiencing unbearable physical or emotional pain. Mum said that she wasnât either.
I tell Tenaya that I do not want to talk about death because it is boring. I ask if she wants to play Scrabble, and she says yes, so I go to get the board from beneath her bed. Because of her mood Tenaya keeps spelling out macabre words like blood and coffin and rot, even though they are not what will get her the most points. I play BROKERING, she plays BYE, I play JUDGE, she plays JASPER. I tell her she canât use that. She asks me who I am and I tell her I donât know. I win.
Final Scores:
Jasper 315
Tenaya 185
It starts raining and I tell Tenaya I am leaving. Outside, the sky is concrete and the rain drops are ball bearings. They ring off the pavements and hide inside of my shoes. Rain smells of forests and it eats the familiarity of these streets. The wetter I get, the more aware I am. Aware that I am alive. And Tabitha Mowai is not. And Margaret Clamwell is not. My cheeks are tight and red. Tabithaâs will be pale and papery. I wonder if dead people bruise when you punch them. I bite a ring of toothmarks into my forearm so it looks like a wristwatch. It hurts because I am alive, and this is all very disorientating, but I know I have a whole lot of things ahead of me, a whole life. And Tabitha Mowai does not. And that is even sadder than anorexia fetishes or paedophilia or people who cry because they feel guilty about watching porn videos of someone who has committed suicide.
9
I wake up at 10:20 a.m. The sun is already awake and has taken up residence in my room. Everything is very bright and warm, like a greenhouse. I open the windows and smell the air, which always smells of soil because our neighbour is an old woman who uses her garden as an allotment. Sometimes she gives Mum tomatoes. Mum says that she admires our neighbour for being pro-active despite having lost her husband. She says that women can cope alone after they lose their husbands but men cannot cope after losing their wives. This happened to Mumâs dad. When Gran died, his nails used to fill up with dirt and he would forget to shave or shower. Sometimes he would go without food for days so that he could save up enough money to visit this Vietnamese prostitute who reminded him of a girl from the war.
Mum is at work and Keith is sleeping because he has been working nights. I make tea and take a cigarette out onto the decking with the newspaper. The front page details the kidnap and murder of a young girl. The world has forgotten about Tabitha because the world
Sometimes her mum puts wine in the kettle. Sometimes she urinates in the garden and announces that she is encouraging the grass.
We are sat in her basement with a pot of tea between us. Steam is tentatively curling out of the spout, as though the air is an enemy castle. Tenaya has stopped crying but is looking down into her tea. I imagine touching her eyelids and feeling that they are still damp.
âI canât believe sheâs gone,â she says.
I donât say anything. I do believe it because killing yourself is very easy. Even a dog could do it.
Mum had a talk with me about suicide once. I think this is because Mum sometimes experiences depressive mood swings and she is worried that they have been genetically passed down to me. The only trait I have inherited from my mother is cynicism. She told me, âNever kill yourself, it is a selfish thing to do.â I told her it was selfish of her to ban suicide because at some point in my life I may be subject to unbearable physical or emotional pain. She looked upset so I placed my hand on her shoulder and told her that I am currently not experiencing unbearable physical or emotional pain. Mum said that she wasnât either.
I tell Tenaya that I do not want to talk about death because it is boring. I ask if she wants to play Scrabble, and she says yes, so I go to get the board from beneath her bed. Because of her mood Tenaya keeps spelling out macabre words like blood and coffin and rot, even though they are not what will get her the most points. I play BROKERING, she plays BYE, I play JUDGE, she plays JASPER. I tell her she canât use that. She asks me who I am and I tell her I donât know. I win.
Final Scores:
Jasper 315
Tenaya 185
It starts raining and I tell Tenaya I am leaving. Outside, the sky is concrete and the rain drops are ball bearings. They ring off the pavements and hide inside of my shoes. Rain smells of forests and it eats the familiarity of these streets. The wetter I get, the more aware I am. Aware that I am alive. And Tabitha Mowai is not. And Margaret Clamwell is not. My cheeks are tight and red. Tabithaâs will be pale and papery. I wonder if dead people bruise when you punch them. I bite a ring of toothmarks into my forearm so it looks like a wristwatch. It hurts because I am alive, and this is all very disorientating, but I know I have a whole lot of things ahead of me, a whole life. And Tabitha Mowai does not. And that is even sadder than anorexia fetishes or paedophilia or people who cry because they feel guilty about watching porn videos of someone who has committed suicide.
9
I wake up at 10:20 a.m. The sun is already awake and has taken up residence in my room. Everything is very bright and warm, like a greenhouse. I open the windows and smell the air, which always smells of soil because our neighbour is an old woman who uses her garden as an allotment. Sometimes she gives Mum tomatoes. Mum says that she admires our neighbour for being pro-active despite having lost her husband. She says that women can cope alone after they lose their husbands but men cannot cope after losing their wives. This happened to Mumâs dad. When Gran died, his nails used to fill up with dirt and he would forget to shave or shower. Sometimes he would go without food for days so that he could save up enough money to visit this Vietnamese prostitute who reminded him of a girl from the war.
Mum is at work and Keith is sleeping because he has been working nights. I make tea and take a cigarette out onto the decking with the newspaper. The front page details the kidnap and murder of a young girl. The world has forgotten about Tabitha because the world
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