“Always a well-dressed fool
Who wouldn’t spare the rod
Never for me”
-“Foreigner’s God” by Hozier
Colm
His fingers flew. Colm was flying, but he wasn’t free. His fingers followed regimented paths, a platoon of soldiers, lining up, striking one at a time, just like they had planned. But one renegade struck out at the wrong time, throwing a sour note into the tail-wind of his violin.
His father’s voice came to mind, crowding his thoughts. Start over, it said. He stopped, ready to start from the beginning. But the judges expected a different path. They held their waiting fingers next to the sour note, ready to move on. His brow-line broke in the center; the soldiers must charge, must go on. There was no starting over.
Now his fingers flew and flew free. The soldiers were fierce and courageous. They followed the lines of their plan, but also their intuition, their innate sense of battle. Colm knew he had messed up again, but the notes flowed in lines and this time those lines felt like music.
Colm had trouble concealing his smile when he bowed, as one judge clapped,
another smiled, and the last one nodded, not in recognition, but in agreement. But his father was watching so conceal it he did.
He had trouble looking at his father when he walked off the stage. But his father was watching so look at him he did.
His father’s face was flat but the lines of his face were angry. Colm had learned to see that anger, no matter how slight, so he could know when to duck, when to brace himself, and when to run away.
This anger was slight but intense. This was when to run away. But there was nowhere to run, so Colm walked straight into battle, into the fray, trying to conceal his fear but in all likelihood failing.
“You made a mistake,” his father said. The words that had been waiting in his father’s mouth now met Colm’s ears. The voice was quiet, more intense, more dangerous. Run. It said. You can’t duck this one. You can’t brace yourself this time. Run.
“Why didn’t you start over, Colm?” The voice continued. Quiet. Intense. Dangerous. Run. “I told you to start over.”
Colm’s voice stuck in his throat thick with fear. He didn’t try to speak because he knew he couldn’t. He knew he would speak wrong. He knew he would
make a mistake. “Answer me Colm.” A warning. Not in the words. In the lines, straight on a calm face. Run. His voice stuck in a throat thick with fear. The voice didn’t need an answer.
“You shouldn’t have made that mistake, Colm. You should have started over.” The
voice still wanted an answer. His throat was thick with fear. His father banged on the ground the cane he never used for walking. “Answer me, Colm,” he snapped.
But Colm could not.
The cane swung backwards, but Colm had no time to react before it hit his head. He sunk to his knees, surprised as much as he was not. But the pain still cracked and stung, hot on his forehead. He looked up, mouth open in surprise. His father had never lost his temper in public. Only in private where bedroom walls would hide his shame.
But he struck again. Again. Pain snaked and cracked and barely escaped Colm’s lips. He had learned a long time ago not to scream. Screaming was uncouth, uncivilized, and, most importantly, it attracted the neighbors’ attention.
So Colm did not scream, but he did attract someone’s attention. The cracks of cane against his skull were louder than the grunts that passed Colm’s lips. His father couldn’t blame him this time. He felt the blood run down the bridge of his nose and gasped in surprise, in fear.
The pain that cracked and bled threatened his vision with black but he saw the eyes of a woman, the horrorstruck eyes of a woman.
He heard shouting. He wasn’t shouting. The voice was coming from outside his head.
And even through the pain all he could think was that his father couldn’t blame him anymore, not this time. Foreign arms pulled his father back. Neighbors.
He had bothered the neighbors. He shook his head. No. No. No. He wasn’t the one shouting.
The woman pulled him against her chest. Like a mother.
And maybe she was. But she was a neighbor; he had bothered the neighbors. Now they were interfering. He was breathing fast and quick. He wasn’t the one shouting; he couldn’t be – the voice was so far outside his own body. Father couldn’t blame him. He pulled his head into the neighbor’s chest. He gasped through the pain. But he wasn’t the one shouting.
“Colm! Colm! Colm!” He knew that voice. Sophie. The neighbor pulled back. His little sister was around him, hidden in his chest. He was supposed to protect her. How could he do that now? He leaned in, his arms barely around her.
“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I failed.”
Nihilistic Porcupine 