Run, Rebel

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Run, Rebel Page 5

by Manjeet Mann


  when I step through the front door.

  I take the backstreets and

  sprint down a dirty alley,

  recover and jog.

  Pick up my pace

  round the back of the bus garage

  and sprint past the park.

  Too long.

  Stop a quarter of the way.

  Catch my breath.

  Look behind me,

  look in front.

  One day.

  One day.

  I’m gonna sprint

  this entire street

  without stopping.

  Recover and sprint again.

  Halfway.

  Park seems longer today.

  Recover. Sprint again.

  Twice more.

  Jog up the hill,

  turn on to our estate.

  I stop.

  Take a moment.

  Shake out my arms and legs.

  Lunge up the front steps.

  Long strides,

  three steps at a time,

  thighs burning

  all the way up

  to the front door.

  Sweaty and smiling,

  endorphins helping me forget,

  got me seeing through

  rose-tinted glasses as I

  sneak a peek through the window.

  See Dad

  sitting at the kitchen table.

  It’s fine.

  I tell myself.

  I’m sweaty and smiling,

  endorphins still playing their

  tricks.

  My key turns

  in the front door.

  Hands shake

  as endorphins start to quit.

  I feel them

  dying.

  Take a deep breath,

  try and breathe

  life back into them

  before I open the door

  and walk into the kitchen.

  I feel the difference in the air.

  It’s heavy in here.

  All positive feelings disappear,

  replaced in an instant

  by an almighty lead weight

  in my chest.

  He stares.

  I force a smile

  as rocks land in my stomach.

  He sits

  at the kitchen table.

  Eyes bloodshot red.

  Where have you been?

  School.

  Don’t lie.

  I’m not!

  Dad’s sitting, staring.

  I’ll ask you one more time.

  Where have you been?

  I stayed late talking to my teacher at school.

  He rubs his bald head

  with clenched fists,

  looks at me out of the corner of his eye,

  makes his way to the kitchen window and

  stares out across the street.

  He starts asking too many questions

  and I’m telling too many lies.

  I say something about Mrs Wittle,

  tripping over my words,

  as I try to convince.

  The one with the purple hair …

  Small …

  Parents’ evening …

  Every bit of me is shaking.

  A rabbit caught in headlights.

  I stand paralysed.

  Dad’s starting to shout,

  saying I was seen with

  … a boy.

  I swallow vomit

  as his voice thunders across the estate,

  loud enough for everyone

  to hear threats

  about The Man

  across the road.

  He lives

  across the road.

  You can see his house

  from the kitchen window.

  Ever since we were little

  me and Ruby

  have been warned

  about The Man across the road.

  How he killed his daughter.

  How she’d done bad things.

  How she’d shamed the family.

  Her parents told the school

  she’d gone back to their ‘homeland’,

  but really her dad disposed of the body,

  and everyone in the community keeps quiet.

  We were to take it as a warning:

  should we shame, dishonour or disobey,

  we would end up the very same way.

  It could be little things like

  being caught dancing to the radio.

  Or bigger things like

  Ruby wanting to do A levels.

  I remember the first time

  the warning came.

  You know The Man across the road …

  It was almost casual in tone.

  I remember thinking,

  Why is he telling me?

  and then slowly

  this sinking feeling …

  knowing why he was telling me.

  So I’d really study The Man.

  I’d watch him take his bins out,

  wondering if he was disposing of body parts.

  I’d spy on him as he mowed his lawn,

  wondering if she was buried under the grass.

  We always saw him with two daughters,

  but if I only saw one daughter,

  and I hadn’t seen the other one for a while,

  I’d get a bit scared, you know …

  but then she’d reappear,

  and I’d be like … phew …

  but then I would think

  about the third daughter.

  The murdered one,

  the one we’d never seen,

  and my heart would start beating so fast

  I’d find it hard to catch my breath.

  When I was little,

  he was the monster under my bed,

  the bogeyman in the wardrobe,

  the demon in the darkness,

  the vampire outside my window.

  I’d sleep with the light on,

  praying I wouldn’t become his prey.

  Now,

  he is real.

  The story in the newspaper,

  or on the ten o’clock news.

  Police ignored girl’s pleas.

  Remains found in a suitcase.

  Father and brother arrested.

  An honour killing.

  Although

  there is no honour

  in killing.

  You think because I’m illiterate I don’t see?

  You think you can pull the wool over my eyes?

  Dad’s voice

  penetrates skin

  and bone.

  His brow furrowed,

  his eyes red,

  wild and staring.

  His hands

  are fists

  resting on the table.

  You think I don’t hear the lie?

  You think you can trick me?

  You think you’re being clever?

  My eyes sting

  and there’s something

  in my throat.

  Don’t cry.

  I mustn’t cry.

  I’m stuck.

  Feet buried in the lino,

  not listening to the mouth moving,

  just the sound ringing in my ears.

  Fingers digging into skin.

  Pain numbs emotion.

  I want to run,

  never stopping.

  Say something.

  You have a tongue.

  Speak!

  It was just McDonald’s.

  My voice quiet

  weak

  frightened.

  From now on you come straight home.

  Do you know how this makes me look?

  Do you know what people will say about me?

  Do not put a stain on our family name.

  He talks of dishonour.

  Behzti.

  You’re lucky, he says.

  If you were in India,

  I would have thrown you

  into th
e street

  for behzti like this.

  Is it ungrateful to feel

  that I’m not that

  lucky?

  Only girls carry behzti.

  It is on our shoulders alone.

  But behzti stains this family name

  by Dad and Dad alone.

  Every time he gets drunk

  and strangers bring him home.

  Legs feel heavy

  as they carry me

  up the stairs.

  My head feels light

  as the contents

  of my stomach

  erupt from my mouth,

  filling up the toilet bowl.

  I sit on the edge

  of my bed,

  staring at the space

  where Ruby’s bed

  used to be.

  The room looks uneven,

  feels all wrong,

  like it doesn’t suit

  being half empty.

  My eyes close.

  I’m so tired.

  It feels like

  I haven’t slept

  since she left.

  Ruby’s

  gentle

  quiet

  never makes a fuss.

  I’m

  spiky

  loud

  way too emotional.

  We were more than sisters.

  We were allies.

  We saw the hurdles we were

  to overcome,

  and we were going to jump them together.

  I’d tell Ruby

  that she could do with getting

  a bit of fire in her belly.

  She’d say

  I could do with simmering down.

  Couldn’t be more different,

  some would say.

  I thought we complemented each other.

  We didn’t have to try.

  We just belonged.

  We fitted.

  That’s what made us work.

  That’s what made us

  STRONG.

  Sharing a room.

  (Sharing a room

  with Ruby was the best.)

  Telling her everything.

  (She was the first friend

  I ever made.)

  Nights tucked up in her bed.

  (Because I was too scared to

  sleep alone.)

  Ruby tucked up in my bed.

  (Reading to me

  until I slept.)

  Making vision boards together.

  (We loved to dream. Places

  to travel, goals to achieve.)

  Supporting each other.

  (She’d time my sprints,

  I’d read every essay she wrote.)

  Dancing on her feet.

  (She would carry me around

  and call me her little dolly.)

  Feeling safe.

  (When Mum and Dad would argue,

  she’d take me upstairs, pile duvets over me

  and put earmuffs over my ears.)

  The things we said before we went to sleep.

  (Love you like apple loves crumble.

  Love you like sock loves foot.)

  Ruby was my strength.

  I felt superhuman

  knowing she was around.

  Ruby was my everything,

  more than a sister, a forever friend.

  It was us against the world.

  Together we spied on The Man.

  Squealed if he came out of his house

  and ducked down from the kitchen window.

  Laughing to mask the fear,

  knowing I was safe with her.

  She’d squeeze my hand tight as we passed

  by his house on the way to school

  only letting go when

  she knew I felt safe.

  We shared dreams of the future and

  played games of make-believe,

  telling ourselves,

  It won’t always be like this.

  Promising to protect each other.

  Standing side by side.

  No one would ever break us.

  Now we fight

  like they fight.

  We torture and hurt.

  With a swift slice of a sharp tongue,

  we open old wounds and

  stop them from healing.

  Years of lessons

  impossible to unlearn.

  We fight like they fight.

  We fight like they fight.

  We fight like they fight.

  We fight like they fight.

  And we are good.

  I’ll always be here for you,

  she said.

  I’ll never leave you

  to fend for yourself,

  she said.

  Trust me,

  she said.

  I’ll get us out of here,

  she said.

  Then she left.

  Is it easier

  to lose someone

  for real?

  To bury them

  in the ground,

  never see them again?

  Rather than

  seeing them

  but never

  having them back

  the way they were?

  To have them

  living,

  breathing,

  but gone?

  My head is a jumble of images

  a mixing desk of sounds.

  The Man Auntie Vomit Traffic Lights Fists Sprinting Tara

  bewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoof

  Red Jumper Green Light Track Shoelace Tarmac Sweat Trainers

  vomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomitvomit. Woman. Staring. Eyes. David. Hand. Wrist. Eyes.

  Shopping Bags Phone Shop Mackie D’s Heart Thumping

  Thudthudthudthudthudthudthudthudthudthud

  Hand Wrist Warm Stay Smile Eyes Cheekbones Hand Wrist Warm Stay

  DavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavidDavid

  T H E M A N

  deaddaughterdeaddaughterdeaddaughterdeaddaughterdeaddaughter

  Can’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathe

  H E L P

  Can’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathe can’tbreathe can’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathe can’tbreathecan’tbreathe

  H E L P

  Inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale

  I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE

  Inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale

  Revolutions traffic lights purple hair park toilet vomit fake pupils eyes

  track running

  RunningRunningRunningRunningRunningRunningRunningRunning

  I WISH I COULD ESCAPE

  BehztiBehztiBehztiBehzti

  clawingclawingclawingclawingclawingclawingclawingclawingclawing

  GET ME OUT

  bewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoofbewakoof

  H E L P

  Help

  Help

  Help

  Anyone?

  If I can’t run,

  I’m not whole.

  I’m only half

  a person.

  The thought of that

  weighs heavy,

  seems so dark.

  The feeling goes

  beyond running.

  I see

  my entire future

  like Ruby’s.

  The realization

  that choice

  is not a privilege

  I am given.

  The frustration of

  wanting more

  and not knowing

  how to get it.

  I’m paralysed

  with fear,

  allowing only tears

  the freedom

  to

  run

  down

  my

  face.

  I stare at the ceiling,

>   longing for a time

  before

  I wanted more.

  Before

  I stopped being content.

  Before

  I learned that girls had to be subservient.

  Before

  I decided that being subservient

  just isn’t in my blood.

  The flimsy, dog-eared book

  feels heavy in my hand.

  I stare at the cover,

  the title teasing.

  The Art of Revolution.

  I turn to the introduction.

  Fighting for freedom.

  To do what the heart desires.

  I begin reading,

  sinking deeper and deeper,

  devouring each page.

  Something is calling.

  I feel it running through me,

  testing, teasing, telling me

  that what’s to come will be

  the biggest, bravest thing

  I will ever do.

  One to eight.

  It’s all there:

  the secrets

  the plots

  the war

  the change

  the peace.

  Words land in my empty stomach,

  nourishing it with tales of courage

  that starve the ever-present

  baseline of fear and anxiety as I

  immerse myself in stage one and

  how it all starts.

  Words leap out

  from the page

  and land like a

  punch in the gut,

  waking up my insides.

  I flick through

  the pages,

  trying to absorb

  the text as quick as I can,

  drink it all in.

  The only other place

  I am this excited

  is on the track.

  I’m amazed –

  Mr History Jones

  has won me over.

  I take it all back …

  I feel truly alive.

  Knowing that change must come from me.

  Knowing I do have a choice.

  Knowing that this choice,

  that this change,

  might mean

  my life

  may never

  be the

  same again.

  I light Tara’s gift.

  The smell of sage

  wraps itself round the room.

  I close my eyes.

  Breathe in

  two–three–four

  breathe out

  two–three–four.

  Tara taught me

  how to meditate.

  I’m no good.

  Breathe in

  two–three–four

  breathe out

  two–three–four.

  Breathe in

  two–three–four

  breathe out

  two …

  It’s no good.

  Thoughts keep racing.

 

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