The Little Voice

by Joss Sheldon

  “Break free. Be free. Be the boy you want to be. Yes, yes!”

  So I started to laugh. Just like that. I did exactly as the egot had suggested. And it felt so right! So good! So natural!

  The egot started to howl.

  Then I started to howl. I howled for the sake of howling. I howled like a rapturous wolf. I released a never-ending ‘Ah-woo’, which floated on the wings of time and soared as high as the heavens. I released my inner-beast. It was base. It was animalistic. And it felt great.

  ‘Ah-woo! Ah-woo! Ah-woo!’

  I must’ve howled for a full three minutes.

  Mr O’Donnell marched across the classroom, taking slow methodical steps. He stopped still. And then he stood above me, with his hands on his pointy hips.

  His shadow engulfed me. His breath burnt my neck.

  He waited, as still as a sentry, until I’d finished. And then he returned to the front of the room, where he continued on with the lesson as if nothing had happened. But I could tell that he’d been affected. His hands shook as he wrote. And his voice stuttered as he spoke:

  “What is the su-su-subjunctive form of a vu-vu-verb?” he asked.

  “Shouldn’t you know that?” I replied at the egot’s request. “You’re supposed to be the teacher.”

  Mr O’Donnell snapped his piece of chalk.

  Sleepy Sampson giggled like a toddler.

  And an announcement blared out of the PA:

  “Daisy Smith: Please report to reception immediately.”

  Mr O’Donnell paused. He stood there, with his hands on his hips, whilst he waited for the interruption to finish.

  The PA fizzled.

  Mr O’Donnell was about to continue, but I spoke up before he had the chance:

  “I’m hearing those voices again,” I said.

  Everyone laughed.

  Mr O’Donnell cracked.

  “Yew!” he yelled. “Yew Shodkin! I’ve had it up to here with you. This is your last warning! You’re walking a thin line now boy-o. If I hear another peep out of you today, you’ll find yourself in front of Mr Grunt. Serious disciplinary measures will await! Oh yes!”

  But I didn’t care. I was still on edge; full of restless energy and unfulfilled cravings. I still felt imprisoned. I still felt an urge to break free.

  So, at the egot’s suggestion, I picked up a wooden ruler and slapped it against Chubby Smith’s arm.

  “Yee-ha!!!” the egot whooped. Its voice was still quiet, even though it was cheering, which imbued it with a sort of understated gravitas.

  Chubby Smith’s eyes lit up.

  I jabbed his breast. I stabbed his arm. I swished the breath from his mouth.

  Chubby Smith grabbed his ruler.

  “Touché!” he cheered as he thrust it towards me.

  God I loved that boy! Chubby Smith was a real legend. He had that air of joviality which you often find in the slightly rotund. A smile was never far from his lips. His eyes were always inclined to a cheeky wink.

  I swatted his ruler aside and leapt to my feet.

  “En garde!”

  Chubby Smith jumped up. He was beaming!

  We faced off.

  I lunged forward, with my head bowed and my ruler outstretched. Chubby Smith bent backwards. His stumpy legs stumbled through a thousand tiny steps.

  He recovered. He gave me a cheeky wink. And then he went on the offensive; swinging and jabbing; slashing his ruler through the nonchalant air. I dodged and ducked and dived; bobbing one way and then the other.

  The egot mimicked my movements. There was a joyous smile on its face. Its hair glowed. Its red skin glistened with fiery sweat.

  We skipped around the room.

  We always used to skip back then. It was an expression of our youth; more joyous than walking, more graceful than running, and more weightless than standing still.

  We skipped past busy shelves, sickly plants and baffled students.

  We skipped past the school mouse, who was imprisoned in a tiny cage.

  We skipped past tables, chairs and cupboards.

  And we danced. Screeching chairs slid away as we waltzed between them. Girls gasped as we exchanged blows. Boys cheered as my ruler prodded Chubby Smith’s ribs, triceps and hips. As he responded with blows to my abdomen, wrist and kidney.

  The repressive walls melted away. Letters, numbers and words floated off into the ether. Rules, regulations and restrictions fell to the ground like dust.

  I was breaking free from the shackles of my incarceration. I was expressing myself. And, above all else, I was being a child; playing games, burning off my excess energy, and having the time of my life.

  The egot was having the time of its life.

  Mr O’Donnell was yelling:

  “Yew Shodkin! This time you’ve done it! Oh yes!”

  He was scrambling across the room; lumbering over chairs and crashing into children. His brown brogues were slapping the waxy linoleum. His sleeves were flapping about like demented bird-wings.

  “You’re in trouble now boy-o!”

  Mr O’Donnell swept down on me, grabbed my collar and lifted me up like an eagle with a mouse. My top button cut into my throat. My legs caught the air.

  It was the start of my comedown.

  My world inverted. The sparks of freedom which had burned inside me were snuffed out by Mr O’Donnell’s foggy breath. My hope was replaced by fear.

  Mr O’Donnell carried me outside.

  On we marched; through plastic-coated halls which smelt of white glue, around barbed corners and up lonesome steps. My teacher’s feet tapped a manic beat; out of time and without any rhythm.

  The walls gawked at me with condescending aloofness.

  The air tasted of years gone by.

  My heart pounded. It echoed with foreboding. My neck-hairs stood to attention. My feet cried sweaty tears.

  On we marched; through the luminous glare of neon tube-lighting, around vainglorious cupboards and up toothy stairs.

  On we marched; through the alleys of my discontent, the passageways of my perdition and the labyrinths of my shame.

  On we marched, until we reached Mr Grunt’s office, where we stood to attention and awaited orders.

  “And what do we have here then?” The headmaster boomed.

  “This boy-o has gone too far,” Mr O’Donnell replied. “Too far! He’s been tearing around, fighting, talking back and howling. It’s time for some serious disciplinary action. Oh yes!”

  Mr Grunt’s head bobbed up and down.

  “Serious disciplinary actions?” he echoed.

  “Some serious discipline,” Mr O’Donnell agreed. “Oh yes!”

  Mr Grunt took a moment to think. His bushy eyebrows pressed together. His elephantine skin crumpled into folds.

  The seconds which followed felt like little pieces of eternity. Everything was quiet. Even the echoes were silent. Even the wind shushed itself.

  My teachers loomed over me; suffocating me with their negative energy and sucking every ounce of élan from my shattered being. I could feel their auras. I could see the brown of their self-absorption, the dark yellow of their stress, and the muddy red of their anger.

  That anger bubbled away. Smoke poured out of their busy nostrils. And lava flowed through their bloodshot eyes.

  I felt so small! I felt like a mouse who’d been trapped in a corner by a patient cat. My fear strangled me. My guilt rattled me. My shame erupted. I felt disgraced, ridiculous and utterly absurd.

  “Have you ever heard the expression,” Mr Grunt finally asked. “‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me’?”

  I shook my head. The motion made my stomach feel queasy.

  Mr Grunt tapped his finger.

  “You’ve been making ‘fools’ out of us,” he sighed. “We’ve given you chance-after-chance and you’ve ‘shamed’ us time-after-time. We need to do things differently. We need to discipline you.”

  Mr Grunt looked at Mr O’Donnell for approval.


  Mr O’Donnell nodded sagely.

  My belly filled with acid.

  “Yes,” Mr Grunt continued. “Discipline! Serious disciplinary measures!”

  He tapped his weather-beaten lip.

  “We don’t like to discipline our students. No. We don’t enjoy it one bit. But we do need to do it. We need to do it for our students’ sake - to help them to become better people. It’s our duty.”

  Mr Grunt looked pleased with himself.

  “Do you know why people prune their plants?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “To eat them?” I asked tentatively.

  Mr Grunt laughed. It was a warm laugh. Uncle-like. Gay.

  “No Yewy, it’s not to eat them. It’s because when you cut back the plants’ dominant stems, you give its weaker stems the chance to grow. In time, the plant will flourish. It’ll produce prettier flowers and bigger fruit.”

  I nodded.

  But I couldn’t be sure what Mr Grunt was getting at. And so I started to doubt my rational capabilities. I started to doubt my sanity. I started to doubt everything:

  ‘What was I doing?’

  ‘Why on earth did I howl like a wolf?’

  ‘Why did I have a sword fight with Chubby Smith?’

  ‘Why did I have to be so different?’

  ‘Why couldn’t I just conform, like all the other kids in my class?’

  My doubt mixed in with my shame. It created a maelstrom of acid in my stomach and a cyclone of blood in my heart.

  Mr Grunt, on the other hand, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. The blood which had drained from my face seemed to have re-appeared in his. His eyebrows had finally split into two distinct entities.

  He continued on:

  “Well, young Yew, your personality is dominated by a few malignant stems. Stems of mischief! Stems of indiscipline! Stems of moral depravity!

  “But there are stems of decency in you as well. Stems of intelligence. Stems of fraternity. Stems of confidence.

  “We need to discipline you.”

  Mr Grunt paused for the briefest of moments, which allowed Mr O’Donnell to echo his words:

  “We need to discipline you boy-o! Oh yes!”

  Mr Grunt cleared his throat:

  ‘Aargh! Gumph!’

  “Well, yes, exactly,” he continued. “We need to discipline you. But we don’t want to discipline you. No. We’re not nasty. We’re not bad people.

  “Think of us as gardeners. We want to help you to develop and grow! But, before you can bloom, we need to prune back the nasty character traits which are dominating your personality. It’ll allow your good side to blossom. It’ll help you to become a better you!”

  The headmaster’s words seemed so elegant to me. So refined. So utterly cerebral!

  But, looking back on it now, I can’t help thinking of a Lao Tzu proverb; ‘True words are not beautiful, beautiful words are not true. Good words are not persuasive, persuasive words are not good’.

  I found Mr Grunt’s words ‘beautiful’ and ‘persuasive’. I found them intoxicating. But, overwhelmed by the presence of those two grown men, I couldn’t see that Mr Grunt’s words were neither ‘good’ nor ‘true’.

  My eyes opened wide.

  And then it hit me. It had taken me what felt like millennia, but it finally hit me. I finally realised why I was feeling so depraved.

  It was that little blighter, the egot!

  The egot had always protected me when I’d gotten into trouble. It had always helped me to overcome the punishments and harsh-words which came my way. It had always made me feel invincible.

  But, in the tumultuous furore which had enveloped me, I hadn’t even noticed its absence. I hadn’t even thought of it.

  Mr O’Donnell stood above me. Mr Grunt sat in front of me. And I looked inside myself to find the egot.

  I soon located it. It was sat, with its back turned, scratching its elfish ears. It looked like it was talking to itself; opening and closing its mouth without emitting a sound. It looked utterly confused. Broken. Lost.

  I tried to get its attention, but it didn’t even look up.

  I shook my head. I shouted at the egot. I stared at it. But it didn’t move an inch. It completely ignored me!

  It counted and re-counted its claws.

  A silver tear rolled down its cheek.

  A hair fell from its head.

  I was gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. I felt totally betrayed.

  I hit rock bottom for the first time since I was admonished for acting like a savage. Like that time, I felt a deathly sort of anxiety, which shook me from side to side and made me shiver to the core. I felt abandoned, small and base.

  I simply couldn’t comprehend what had happened. I couldn’t process the information which was revealing itself to me. I couldn’t cope with the egot’s betrayal.

  The egot was just sitting there, rocking. Oblivious to me. Oblivious to my needs.

  It had totally abandoned me at the moment I’d needed it the most.

  My fingertips tingled and my insides felt totally hollow.

  “We need to discipline you, Yewy,” Mr Grunt concluded.

  “You need discipline boy-o,” Mr O’Donnell replied.

  “Well, err, yes,” Mr Grunt continued. “Report to me after lunch to start your punishment.”

  I bowed my head.

  I couldn’t muster the strength to reply.

  SIX

  I changed.

  If you were to ask Mr O’Donnell or Mr Grunt, they’d probably tell you that their disciplinary measures made the difference. But they’d be wrong.

  It’s like Lao Tzu says; ‘If you are untrustworthy, people will not trust you’.

  Well, for me, the egot had become ‘untrustworthy’. I couldn’t ‘trust’ it. I didn’t feel that I could rely on its advice.

  So I ignored the egot when it told me to rebel; to go and play with the other kids rather than return to see the headmaster. I went to see Mr Grunt as soon as I’d eaten my lunch.

  Mr Grunt sat me down in the school’s reception. Then he told me to write this line fifty times:

  ‘My good side will overpower my bad side. My angels will overcome my demons. My light will outshine my darkness’.

  The egot swung between cranial nerves, like a beastly Tarzan who had free rein over the jungle of my mind. It let go, flew through some empty space, and landed with an ‘Oomph’. Its red skin glistened with sweat and its yellow hair hung with a scruffy sort of animal magnetism.

  It smiled at me. It was such an innocent smile. Beguiling. Mesmeric.

  The egot lifted its flat cap, bent its knee, and winked in a way which made its eye sparkle. It made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

  The egot was just so seductive. It still held sway over my emotions.

  “You don’t really want to write lines,” it said in its oh-so-quiet voice; mulling over the letter ‘d’ in the word ‘don’t’ like a melancholic opera singer. “I think you’d like to refuse Mr Grunt’s request. You wouldn’t want to look weak. No, no.”

  I didn’t say a word.

  “If you succumb now, you’d be made to endure months of punishments. Chances are you’d be better off if you stood up for yourself.”

  The egot’s melodic voice rocked me into a heady trance. Its toxic charm hypnotized me. I was on the verge of taking its advice.

  “Uh. The thing is. I, err. I, umm,” I stuttered.

  But then I remembered the headmaster’s words:

  ‘We don’t want to discipline you. No. We want to help you to develop and grow!’

  Mr Grunt was gazing into my eyes. He had the look of a benign dictator. He looked like a cross between Santa Claus and King Arthur.

  “This will help you to become a better you,” he prompted.

  I nodded. My head was bowed and my eyes were fixed on the floor.

  I picked up my pen and began to write.

  I did it for a selfish reason; to avoid further punishment. And I did it
for a selfless reason too; to please Mr Grunt. Even though he was hurting me, I still wanted to make him happy. That selfless urge ran deep within me.

  Anyway, as soon as Mr Grunt turned his back, the egot piped up again.

  “You don’t want to write those lines,” it said. “Not if you’re being honest with yourself.”

  I wrote another line.

  The egot strummed its lip.

  “If you are going to write lines,” it continued. “You could always write different lines. Just to show a little of your character. To stand up for yourself in the smallest of ways. You could write; ‘My stems will not be cut. My hands will not be tied’. If you want to, that is. Yes, yes.”

  I ignored it. I ignored that little blighter, just like it had ignored me when I’d needed it the most.

  Please understand, dear reader, that I’m not suggesting it was easy. Oh no! Deep down I knew the egot was right. I didn’t want to write those lines. I wanted to run out of that place. I wanted to play, outside, with all my friends.

  But my world had crumbled around me. The egot had got me into deep trouble. And then it had deserted me! I was having to write lines because of that charlatan! So I was in no mind to listen to it again.

  Of course, there were still reasons to listen to the egot; the highs were there to be had. The euphoria I’d felt the first time I listened to the egot was a heaven-sent nirvana. It was emancipating. Enlightening. Bliss.

  And I’d experienced that sort of high several times since. Just not quite as intensely. Listening to the egot hadn’t ever made me feel as good as it had done that first time. The euphoria had never been quite as heady. The release had never been quite as profound.

  At the same time, my comedowns were getting worse. I was getting punished more regularly than ever before. And those punishments were leaving me low.

  Well, it was those lows, and not the highs, which were taking centre stage in the arena of my thoughts.

  The scales had tipped.

  A white flag was fluttering in the unenthusiastic breeze. A pen was in my hand. And a blank sheet of paper was filling up with the lines of my surrender.

  SEVEN

  The egot was right about one thing. My decision to write those lines did put Mr Grunt on the front foot. His confidence grew as quickly as mine diminished. His punishments came thick and fast…