Rhinoceros: Ryon's story 1
Wednesday
I don’t want you all crying over your muesli and feeling sorry for me or any of that shit. That’s not going to change anything, I mean, crying about things never changed anything. ‘Poor Ryon, he’s from a broken home with his dad in prison and his mum chain smoking and biting her nails and threatening suicide in the kitchen all day because she’s scared of her own son, if only he could have been saved.’ Bollocks to all that. Best thing that could’ve happened to me, this Secure Unit.
You think I’m being a tough guy, you think it’s the rough kid’s courage? Or perhaps you’ve read a book on psychology and you think my environment has made me become unfeeling, like a lump of wood? ‘Well,’ you say, all knowledgeable from your Guardian Society Section, Ryon wasn’t nurtured as a child, so he is full of revenge and hatred. Or perhaps you think I’m trying to get in with the staff here, slip into their good books so I get out on a tag earlier and terrorise your nice neighbourhood? But look at it from my point of view.
I’ve got a nice clean bed for the first time in my life. Sure, I have to make it, but the sheets are fucking clean.
No pissed up, arguing, bottle smashing, cat kicking neighbours any more.
One-to-one lessons every day. English, Maths, Science, Art, Food Tech, D Tech... PE is a bit crap, but you can’t have everything. There’s only nine of us here.
I’m proper safe. The pack of dogs are split up. ‘Divide to conquer,’ as one of the staff said. Everyone wants good reports so they get rewards. There’s no drunken parent crashing into my space telling me what a twat I am. There’s no gang of so called mates round the corner waiting to jump me for my fags. It’s all controlled.
The staff are OK. They talk to me like they would their own family, or they seem to. Natural, like. They don’t have to shout over the TV or make some kind of stupid point by bursting my eardrums. Yeah, I’m not thick. I know it’s their jobs. But they’re at least good at it. Unlike most of the teachers and social workers I’ve ever met.
I’m taking my medication. It’s part of the deal, but it’s OK. Slow release. I eat breakfast (cooked, man!), pop a pill, feel a bit like throwing up for an hour, then it’s plain sailing all day. No surprises. Not sure if I’ll bother when I get out, but it works in here. No point having a fit about it.
So it’s fine. I have a routine for the first time ever, a cup of tea with three sugars whenever I politely ask for one, and no face to save, status to uphold, image to act out. Frank says I might get a B in my GCSE English. For fucks sake!
