atomised 2

If I don't keep eye contact, he's going to glass me; his mouth is moving in all directions as he appeals for approval to ram home his disgust into my neck or face; I can't remember the exact shape and menace of the shard-knives that would serrate me but I knew that what I was doing was right.

“You're a fucking I-R-A supporter,” he screamed.

Just me and him in frightening technicolor; all other monochrome. It was only us at this moment. And I was going to die spewing blood. Pumping from severed artery; dead within minutes. I was totally sober except for the marijuana but that don't count.

“What are you doing reading, Steve? I thought that you couldn't read?”, I said.
“Nah...I can read...yer know...The Sun's all right.”
Steve looked back at his paper and I placed a cup of tea beside him. I love tea. Tea is good.

“Hey man...look at that...they've got another soldier.”

I asked and got the paper. I couldn't register the death of an individual and or the effects on his family so I devoured the facts. It made us feel better. One little victory.

When I was young, conflicts with Irish kids were common. Bombs were going off and this was Target London. Any weaknesses were punished and not enough Irish could form a gang in my neighbourhood so they were picked off one by one. It was never conscious; it just was.

Sean sees me near the shops and tries to whack me a couple of times
but I throw him to the ground and stand over him.
One just wins and it's understood and
that's the usual ending for a fight for 11 year old boys and
then my ear explodes as his left fist smashed my right ear; and he runs off.

“Fuck I'm bored...got any money Steve?”
Stephen Collins flits back and forth between Dunvegan in The Republic and London fitting into neither society. He's got a London accent you see but feels 'Irish'.
“Yeah...got a fiver,” Steve replied.
“Buy me a pint?”
“Yeah course.”

When we got to the pub, Steve went straight to the bar and started talking to his latest pub 'mate'. I didn't like the look of him immediately.

GAUNT, THIN-ALCOHOLIC, OLD-LOOKING,UNSHAVEN, EXPRESSIONLESS VOICE, BLAND GREY CLOTHES, GREY-LINED SHOES, EVERYTHING THAT WAS WRONG WITH ENGLAND AT THE TIME.

We were young.

For some reason, which I cannot fathom to this day as I am naturally cautious when revealing my real thoughts to strangers, Steve announced at the bar to everyone and me:

“It's a pity about that soldier, yesterday. Shouldn't have been there."
"Shouldn't have been there," I echoed like a moron.

There was a delay, just enough for me to turn slightly away, look back to see him smash the thick pint glass on the edge of the bar. He grabbed me somewhere so I couldn't get away. Everything was frozen; all black and white except me and the fluorescent deranged foaming anger. I was the Target and it had me and so we stared. Nobody blinked. The deadly glass was put down. Pub came back to wonderful colour. I was no longer a fucking I-R-A supporter. Just another day, all separated to its constituent parts and then rejoined, in a blink of any eye; that's the way it is ad infinitum; atomised sum ego et atomised ego ero.