Rhiniceros: Ryon's story 2

Thursday

Frank says I need to swear less. He uses big words and says frequent swearing in autobiographical writing dilutes the impact and dulls the senses of the reader. Too fucking right, Frank. Only joking. Okay, where to start?

Childhood? No, not now anyway. Probably not ever. Who cares, really? I’ve seen enough psychologists to know that they care fuck all for you as long as they get their tests done. Sorry, Frank. And I’m not doing all that dad stuff here, in case you think I’m fishing for sympathy. As if. I feel nothing for him, end of. He was proper mad. I was watching 18s with him when I was five. He played mind games, and after what he did to my cousin. He should die.

So, jump ahead. When he finally went, it was me and mum. That should’ve been better except her nerves took over. She stressed out about everything, couldn’t sleep a wink, smoked like a fucking chimney – sorry Frank – and ended up shouting at me until I didn’t bother listening any more. In fact I stopped listening to anyone. Coping strategy, I guess. Everyone telling me to do this, stop doing that, shut up, speak up, get down, piss off… Home, school, street, wherever. Answer: do my own thing. Grow a skin like an armadillo. But more than that, an awkwardness I grew to love. I learnt to get such a kick out of pissing people off. It was like a fix or something. I used to do it in particular whenever someone had said what a good boy I was, or what a lovely piece of writing, Ryon; well done, Ryon. So I’d shit on their parade. Want me to leave? I’m staying. Want me to do some work? I’m leaving. Want the music turned down? It’s on full blast. Want to talk? I’m saying nothing. Want silence? BLAH BLAH BLAH. Becomes a habit without even thinking about it. Contrary, everyone said, or worse.

Surprise surprise: excluded from primary school. Four, five, six times. Then it was permanent. Significant Behavioural Difficulties. Get that boy a Statement, they all said, send him to a psychologist, find a cure. A cure? Man, I was enjoying myself. Mum had to prise herself from the house and take me to Fulwood Children’s Centre so I could meet an expert and do a load of easy puzzles, like those Mensa tests. I like them. I’m clever, she said, but oppositional. Intensive support is what I needed. Greenlands School: just the place for my sort. And that’s where I met Mr Scope.