My Hero
I think it is impossible to avoid emotional scarring from the way you were raised. Even if you grow up in a stable, loving environment, you are guaranteed to suffer many traumatic events which will have untold repercussions later in life. From a very early age, it was determined that my relationships with women would be nothing short of completely horrifying, the largest contributing factor being my own family.
Growing up as the youngest of four children offered me a graphic, and sometimes harrowing, insight into the world of women and sex. At the tender age of eight, I developed an unhealthy fascination with older women. When I was barely nine years old, my older sister Cara was in her late teens and embracing the world of binge drinking, drug abuse and all night parties.
My parents worked all the hours God sent so I was constantly left in her care. Although I’m not sure care is quite the right word. As a result, I frequently found myself surrounded by excitable teenage girls wearing extremely revealing clothing and knocking back red wine and vodka at a rate that would make hardened alcoholics shake their heads with disbelief. It worried me that my sister referred to cider as mother's milk, whatever that meant.
When my parents went on weekend trips and my sister was left to babysit, our family home would transform into the ultimate underage drinking venue. Early nineties dance music would rattle the walls, providing the soundtrack to acne-infested adolescents having sex in the bathroom, dancing in the kitchen and the inevitable end of night fights that seemed to always result in my brother and sister frantically cleaning up broken ornaments or painting over blood stains on the wall. While these bizarre events took place, I wandered amongst them, relatively unnoticed, observing their utterly astounding behavior, while trying to catch glimpses of the fascinating variety of underwear the girls poorly concealed under their short skirts.
One of the main benefits of these experiences was that my vocabulary developed at an incredible rate, as I managed to memorise the most colourful verbs. I would then eagerly demonstrate my learning to friends at school. Apparently it is not acceptable for a nine year old boy to tell a girl who annoys him, “Shove your pencil case up your bucket fanny.” At the time I thought it was a fairly common blunder that anyone in my position could have made.
Another advantage of being so young was that there was no such thing as ‘restricted access’ when it came to women. Nowhere was out of bounds because I wasn’t really considered male due to my age. I was never asked to leave the room while my sister and her friends got ready for whatever party they were going to as I wasn’t really there. I would sit in the corner, making as little noise as possible, and listen intently as they discussed boys they liked and spat verbal venom about girls they considered ‘sluts’ or ‘cows’.
During these treasured moments of my youth, while other children were playing with action figures and watching with nervous anticipation as the one hundred and one Dalmatians made their bid for freedom, I was marveling at the shiny fabrics and intricate designs that covered teenage girl’s firm buttocks and rapidly developing breasts. As other children dreamt of Christmas presents and their favourite cartoon characters, I fantasised about removing teenage girl’s underwear and exploring what was underneath.
Of all my sister’s friends, my personal favourite to watch was Nat. She was a couple of years older than my sister, which made her twelve years older than me and I absolutely adored her. Everything about her fascinated me: The way her voice always seemed to be an octave and ten decibels higher than everyone else in the room, soaring high above the loudest sound system, and her obscene taste in clothing that always incorporated gold, silver and sequins into every design.
All my sister’s friends drank a lot. That was nothing unfamiliar or shocking. I just took it for granted that this was what all teenagers did. But Nat devoured alcohol like her life depended upon emptying a bottle of Tesco red wine within half hour intervals. Every time I saw her she seemed to be filling her oversized glass with more red wine, while holding a never-ending cigarette in her other hand. I remember thinking to myself, “Where the hell do all these bottles of red wine keep coming from?” Did she bring a suitcase with her that I didn’t see? Do we have a cellar beneath the house that I don’t know about? Everywhere she went there was a cloud of smoke and a stench of stale alcohol complimented by far too much cheap perfume, and I treasured every breath I inhaled. I would stare at her for hours and memorise everything she said, then lie in my bed at night and retell her stories to myself until I fell asleep. She was uncontrollable, mentally-imbalanced and utterly mesmerising. From then on, the only women I had any interest in were voluptuous, borderline alcoholics with loud, thundering voices and too much make up. Those were my beauty queens.
I was never in any doubt as to why my sister chose to associate with such people, she was just like them. For as long as I can remember, she has been everything I have ever aspired to be: Proud, strong and fearless.
I remember my mother taking me to St. Andrew’s Academy one day after primary school had finished because Cara had been caught fighting in the playground. I was a bit unresponsive on account of missing my favourite television show, just so I could watch my sister get another lecture from headmaster Logan about rules in the presence of my mother and I. If she hasn’t learned by now, she isn’t bloody going to. However, my mother was instantly in defensive mode, muttering threats under her breath of what she was going to do to the monster who had been harming her daughter, never once considering the possibility that my sister may have been the one responsible for the incident. You would think that my mother would start to see a pattern forming from the regular occurrence of these visits to the headmaster’s office and the undeniable fact that it was always Cara’s fault. Even if it was someone else who started whatever had transpired, my sister either had a pivotal role or took charge of the entire situation. It was downright inevitable. As it turned out, the truth behind the story was much more interesting.
When we arrived at the school office, Cara was sitting outside with a black eye, a burst lip and a smile of pure satisfaction on her face. She looked as if she had just won an Oscar for Best Actress. I don’t think she even noticed that blood and puss was flowing from the corner of her right eye and her mouth looked like she had just gone nine rounds in a heavyweight championship title fight. I broke free from my mother's hand and sat down next to her. My mum didn't even acknowledge Cara. She simply stormed clean past her daughter and marched towards the headmaster's office. Cara gave me a little secret wink and chirped, "Hey freak."
I looked her up and down with raised eyebrows and muttered, “Look who’s talking.”
Cara simply smiled and shrugged her shoulders
Apparently Cara had been sitting in the playground with her friends, when a stray ball struck her in face from a nearby game of football. No damage was caused by the offence but my sister has the patience of a Rottweiler and nothing provokes her more than the invasion of her personal space. One of the boys, Stanley McCann, had made the fatal mistake of passing a comment at her expense and my sister’s fuse exploded.
I only remember the victim’s name because I find it utterly ridiculous that parents would give their children melodic names that will inevitably become a source of mockery in the playground. Stan McCann? Come on. I may not be the smarted child but even I can spot a potential childhood disaster when I hear one. His parents must either be uncannily (uncannily, get it?) stupid or just downright loathe their son to give him a name that just screams to be made into a classroom chant. It is the kind of thing that adolescent trauma is made of.
Growing up in a house with two older brothers who have no respect for women had made my sister a merciless fighter who would use any tactic necessary to inflict as much pain as possible. This meant that kicks to the groin, hair pulling and eye gauging have become trademark manoeuvres in which she has the precision of a professional hit man. In a fight between two boys, such methods of defeating an opponent are considered cowardly but when a girl enters the equation, such rules simply do not exist. When the school janitor saw her, Cara had poor old Stan pinned to the floor and was punching him furiously in the face as he uttered high pitch screams and begged for help from his fellow classmates, who were too intimidated by Cara’s stocky figure to intervene. As a result, they simply stood at a safe distance and mocked their so called friend’s social homicide. They muttered comments about Stan being a ‘pussy’ and one even remarked that he would ‘give the bitch what she deserved’ if he was in that position, but none of those tough guys were brave enough to follow through and as a result, Stan got slaughtered.
Although my sister has always been strong and independent, she is still a woman and thus plagued by the same insecurities that thrives amongst the rest of her sex: The need to feel like a woman and be treated like one. When Stan unwittingly signed his own death certificate that afternoon, he didn’t realise this simple fact. Women suffer most when they think that they are not valued in the basic aspects that separate them from men; their looks. Every woman possesses an image of herself that, even though racked with insecurities, they cherish. When someone tries to undermine that image, it causes them a pain that men will never know. The significant difference on this occasion is that rather than flee in a flurry of tears and hairspray, Cara resorted to her primal instinct, the one thing that never failed her in the past: Her undeniable ability to inflict pain upon anyone who tries to hurt her, either emotionally or physically. It was a pre-emptive strike she had learned at a very young age. One of the many lessons that having two complete arseholes for older brothers will teach any self-conscious young woman.
My sister was more than capable of reducing Stan, the acne infested, serial masturbator to dust with her razor sharp tongue. I have personally witnessed her immense talent for character destruction on many occasions. She is startlingly efficient. However, she knew where his weakness was, as it is the same Achilles’ heel that exists in all teenage boys. He had managed to make her feel like she wasn’t of any value as a woman, so she decided to completely ruin his worth as a man by showing everyone he looked to for acceptance that he wasn’t tough, masculine or powerful. She destroyed any hope he had of proving himself because as a member of the physically inferior sex, she managed to overpower him with her strength and make him cry (something that is strictly outlawed in the teenage boy note book, get your copy now for only £2.99 from all good book shops). Considering the effect such an incident could cause on his social standing, Cara may as well have thrown him off an apartment building. His placing in the social hierarchy of school was gone. He was officially the bottom of the food chain. Game over. That’s what happens when you refer to a girl who is self-conscious about her weight as a ‘fat cow.’
When the janitor finally managed to drag Cara off the burst balloon that was once an egotistical fifteen year old boy, she pulled free and stamped on his testicles one more time to give him a lasting reminder not to test her patience again. Think about that the next time you consider taunting teenage girls,
My mother, adamant as always in her children’s innocence, demanded an explanation as to how her daughter had managed to attain a bloody lip and swollen eye if she had “apparently” attacked this young boy. Apparently? I saw the guy two weeks later, passing by on the number eleven bus as I was cycling down
Headmaster
As I sat and listened to this implausible yet completely accurate tale, I glowed with silent worship for my hero who totally annihilated a seventeen year old boy. To me, that was the equivalent of a quadriplegic wrestling a professional rugby player into submission. From that day onward, she had my uncompromising loyalty. I no longer looked to my brothers to protect me, not that I ever could, because I knew my sister was more than capable of keeping me safe from harm.
I learned a very important lesson that day. Never, under any circumstances, call a girl, no matter what shape or size, a ‘fat cow.’ You never know what imbalanced hormonal demons may be lurking inside her and your body could be reduced to nothing more than a vast collection of painful bruises and missing teeth.
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