Reflections of a Wasted Childhood

By Artur Hamner

"… hear me out. You get to be grown up for like, sixty years, right? The whole time you gotta be serious and responsible and packin' the same old bag every night and then… you die…  You only get, like, ten, maybe eight good years in between being a dumb little kid and… waiting to die. You got it backwards. Now is what matters. When is that matters."

 "That's it. You've obviously had enough."  

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Artur Hamner
• Release date: Aug 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201955502

Book preview

We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever

The goal is to create something that does

-Chuck Palahniuk-

The best insults are the ones that sound like compliments

-Rat  Pearls before Swine-

The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think...

-Horace Walpole-

I think maybe it was a Thursday...

The air parts with a whirr as the hunk of quartz brushes Mason’s earlobe. He dodges to the left, his feet sliding in the loose stone beneath his feet.

Whoa... shit! Shit! A cloud of dust rises as he skids down the embankment, grinding to a stop at the base of a clump of buckthorn strung through with burdocks and blackberry brambles. Shouts float down to him from above, on the tracks someone is chanting Oh fuck, oh fuck over and over, someone else Motherfucker, the quieter points of the conversation peppered with words that may have been bleeding, or hurt bad?, or fuckin’ time out, asshole! Mason drags himself from the ground, brushing the worst of the dirt and burrs from his pants. He gives a cursory glance to his scraped elbow before scrambling up the bank.

The sun hangs blazing just above the treetops, the glare off the double set of rails throwing halos around the milling figures ahead. Two break off from the group, backing over the tracks, one with his hands raised before his face. The new kids, the ones from Oakdale, the fat kid with the crazy hair and the little douchbag with the tattoo, Noah. Mason didn’t know the fat kid’s name.

He sets off towards them at a jog, hop-stepping the first set of rails as the rest of the group turns on the retreating duo. Now Mason can hear perfectly the shouts, accusations and denials, and he angles his approach to come in between the two factions.

Easy, easy! Hey, what the fuck? He steps ahead of Noah and the fat kid, holding his arms out to the side.

A thin figure emerges from the crowd, the flannel shirt tied around his waist flaring in the light breeze, waving accusingly at the pair now escaping down the slope. Charlie.

Busted Dom’s fuckin’ head open! Wide open! Motherfucker, you knew the fuckin’ rules! Charlie pushes past Mason in pursuit and the rest follow, Dil, Pete and Jim, Kevin; Charlie’s voice whipping back from over his shoulder like a harsh wind, He knew ‘em, Maze... We told ‘em... Got somethin’ for you motherfucker!

The rules of rock-fights were always clear, every time, especially with new kids; nothing bigger than a golf ball, no on-purpose head-shots, no point-blank attacks. The bloody, broken half-brick laying dead center between the rails is evidence enough to warrant an ass whoopin’.

Jesus Christ... Mason doesn’t follow, he weaves between and rushes towards the trio that remains on the opposite side of the tracks. Behind him the sound of running, one, two sets of boots, pursued by a roar on the stones like an approaching freight. A heavy crash and a muffled ooofff as the fat kid drops at the edge of the woods; despite his pitiful screech of terror the charging mob only parts and floods around him.

Jesus Chris, Dom. Look out Mel. Mel does so quickly, more than willing to put space between herself and the bloody mess perched on the rail.

Maze, he’s fuckin’ bleeding bad...

I see it. Fuck Sandy, what’d he hit him with, a brick?

‘Tis only a flesh wound. A scratch...The black knight always triumphs! Dom pushes himself off the rail and stands, wiping the syrupy mess pouring into his eyes from somewhere beneath the unruly shock of brown perched atop his head. He teeters, catches himself and sinks back down onto the rails,

Give it to me straight, Doc. Am I gonna get it when I get home? My fuckin’ shirt’s ruined.

Fuck your threads, homeboy. It’s your dome that’s wrecked. Mason slips his t-shirt over his head and produces a small folding knife from his back pocket. He slits the seam at the sleeve and tears away the rough strip of cotton, pressing it against what appears to be the source of the flow.

Owww...

Hold that there... Hey, I’m talkin’ at ya here

Hold what where? The makeshift compress soaks through within seconds as Mason fumbles to tear away the remaining sleeve. The buck knife slips from his hand, slicing a path straight into the stones where his foot had been; as he dances out of the way his fingers dig beneath the rag and into the gore beneath unleashing a fresh flow.

Owww... Goddamn, Maze, I thought you were my friend.

Fuck I give up, Mason abandons his effort and winds the ragged remains of his shirt around Dom’s head, mopping the blood from his brow and eyes as gingerly as he can manage.

A tap on his shoulder makes him flinch again; he spins around to find his knife hovering in the air just before his eyes. Dom’s groan is a distant echo below the haunting whisper emanating from the possessed implement.

You gonna take it? For a long second he can only stare in disbelief, left hand holding tight the rapidly failing tourniquet, right creeping slowing upward toward the gunmetal haft. Shouts rise from the trees, somewhere along the winding maze of trails and deer runs to the west Noah fled for his life into the sinking sun.

...take it so I can help. Maze? Maze, what the hell? His fingers close around the steel and the knife finds its way into his pocket again.

Shit, Maze, you’re bleeding too... A face swims into his vision as  heavy leaved branches suddenly loom overhead, reaching down for them from the pale blue of the sky. 

He tries to warn her as his knees turn to jell-o but no words come, at least not from his lips.

...don’t get that nasty Kraut blood mixed with mine, asshole. No telling where you been.

A burning starts in his shoulder and knees as he sprawls headlong into the rocks, voices mixing in his mind.

Mason! Maze...!

Pro’ally got the herpes... Lordy, lordy, now I gots the aich-eye-vee’s.

Breath floods back into his lungs and he coughs, the fireworks exploding behind his eyelids fading to specks.

Fu... Fuck...

Fuck you Dom. Mason? Hello?

Hi. How are you, sweetheart? He can feel the grin creeping its way onto his face; it breaks wide at the half disgusted, half relieved sigh that flows over him from the endless space in which he’s floating.

...way you want it baby. They don’t call me Swung like Horse for nuthin’.

Sleeps with Buffalo, more like it.

Ok, ok, it was one time. It had been awhile, you know?

Mason opens his eyes to a chorus of laughs and a bloody hand extended to him; he takes it and is hauled roughly to his feet. The midday sun burns on his already over-tanned back and shoulders, the dry July heat baking the trail of blood that had drained down his chest into a dirty brown scar.

Your sister liked it anyway. Fucker.

Mel moves between them, adjusting the bandage before it slips to cover Dom’s eyes and using his already ruined shirt to mop at the blood that had poured down his face. The torrent is slowed to a meager trickle.

Christ you both look like shit, Sandy cinches the knot at the back of Dom’s head, More than usual even. She swings the powder-blue bag from her shoulder and sifts through the contents, slipping from the jumble an unopened pack of cigarettes and a slim brass lighter. She strips away the plastic and watches it float off into the bushes.

A branch snaps behind them and they all spin toward the source of the sound. Just above the slope appears a face, with a groan and a low sob it slips out of sight again.

What the fuck... Mason steps over the rails, Lynn close on his heels. As they reach the slope another sob rises.

I didn’t do it, I swear. It was Noah. I wasn’t... wasn’t even...even...

The kid skids to the bottom and rolls to a stop, one dirty sneaker held up before his face. Tears leave tracks in the dust covering his cheeks. Please! I wasn’t even playing! I didn’t throw... anything!

He cringes as Mason slides down and drops onto the dirt beside him.

I... I jus’ wanted to smoke and, and... Not this, you know?

Maze. He sticks his blood-smeared hand out. For a long second the kid only stares, his eyes filled with distrust. Finally he relents and is hauled unsteadily to his feet. He hesitantly follows Mason up to where Dom waits supported by the two girls.

I’m... I’m sorry. For Noah and... you know.

No sweat, big fella. War is hell. Something resembling a smile creeps from below Dom’s dripping turban.

We’re taking him to Charlie’s, Mel tugs impatiently on Dom’s arm, We can at least wash it out...

The brush at the bottom of the slope parts again and two panting figures emerge, sweat pouring from their brows.

Little fucker’s quick. Dil near had ‘em at the creek, snatched his shirt right off his back, To further illustrate the point Dil tosses the torn garment at Mason’s feet as Pete continues between heaving breaths. "Kevin and Charlie are still on ‘em an’ we lost Jim somewhere. Fuck, Dil, I’d’ve had ‘em on the rock heap if I hadn’t tripped over your big-ass Polack feet. Fuckin’ dumbass... Hey, can I get one’a them smokes from ya, whoever’s holdin’?"

Almost immediately Dil echoes his request. Sandy dips again into her bag with a disgusted groan and tosses a nearly flattened pack on the ground between him and Dil.

There’s one left. Fight for it.

There’s two... Pete holds up the sleeve and shakes two badly crushed Winstons into his palm.

Well it’s your lucky fucking day, ain’t it dipshi... She is interrupted by a crashing from below as Charlie and Jim emerge from the brush, long scratches across their bare chests and arms. Kevin follows after a few seconds, stopping every few feet to pick at the assortment of brambles, burs and stickers that cling to his shirt and decorate the tangle of his curly black hair.

Gonna kill that little fuck when I fin... Kevin’s words erupt into a roar as he suddenly notices the little fuck’s accomplice doing his best to hide behind Mason and Dom. He charges up the slope, sending an avalanche of stones down behind him.

Fat fucking asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you retards?! We laid down the rules, fuckwad. You goddamn deaf or somethi...

Hey, just... Mason begins, his head still swimming from the heat, his stomach sour from the sight of the blood. 

Chill the fuck out, Kevin. Dom interrupts, peering out from the wrap. 

Fuck that, Pete advances on Kevin’s left and his brother follows; standing side by side only a tiny scar on Jim’s nose tells them apart. What’s that little prick’s name, fatass? Where’s he live? C’mon, Poppin‘ Fresh, ‘fore we stomp a few of them soft rolls into pita bread!

Yeah. Dil’s voice streams weakly through the mob, enough to give them pause.

"Just shut the fuck up, Dilbert. You too, Kevin. Fucking wetback," Sandy drops the smoldering butt between her fingers to the ground and crushes it under her heel before giving each of the twins a shove backwards.

Kevin growls again but stops in his tracks; behind them Dil is occupied more with repairing the broken Winston that had been left him than the impending violence.

I didn’t do it, it was Noah. The kid steps from behind Mason, sudden courage belied by the brimming tears in his eyes and in the quiver of his lip. "He’s such a... fucking asshole. I wasn’t even throwing rocks. I think it’s... a... stupid idea."

Finally, someone agrees with me. Idiots. Melody takes Dom’s arm and tugs him from between Kevin and the kid but he shrugs her off, pushing the slipping rags back up over his eyes and reaching for the cigarette between Sandy’s fingers. He takes a long drag and offers the Winston back; she declines at the sight of the red smeared on the filter. 

Dom adjusts the wrap and shifts in the general direction of the