by Joss Sheldon
It took me a moment to appreciate what I’d done. And then it all became clear. I’d listened to the egot! I didn’t even realise I was doing it. The egot had suggested I pull Snotty McGill’s hair. And I’d pulled her hair. Just like that! I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d just done it; right there, right then, right away.
And I’d thought I’d shut the egot up! What a fool I’d been!
My blood froze and my muscles turned to rock.
That scream sliced the air clean in two.
Miss Grey’s face was a portrait of disappointment; with art nouveau cheeks and minimalist eyes. Her dimples, which pulsated when she was happy, stiffened and then disappeared. The flowers on her summery dress seemed to wilt and fade.
“Sorry Miss,” I whimpered. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
“So why did you do it then?” my teacher replied.
“Tell her the truth,” the egot suggested. It looked far more comfortable than it had done before. It had regained some of its old va va voom. The glint had returned to its eye.
“Tell her what Snotty McGill did.”
“Shut up!” I snapped back inside my head.
“I’m a naughty boy, Miss,” I replied out loud. “I’m a very, very naughty boy. I deserve to be punished.”
Miss Grey gazed into my eyes.
She looked so damn beautiful! There was a fire in her which turned her face red. And there was a softness in her too. I actually saw her visibly melt in front of me. Her shoulders relaxed. Her dimples reappeared.
“Do you really want to be punished?” she asked.
“Yes Miss,” I replied. “I really, really want to be punished. I want to be punished so hard that I’ll never act out like that again. I’m a bad, bad boy. I need you to teach me a lesson.”
I could hear the egot’s heart breaking:
‘Crack!!!’
The egot clutched its chest and doubled over. It choked. Its golden hair turned a pale shade of grey.
I felt its pain. It was like a little part of me was suffering too. My chest felt tight and my throat constricted. An electric flush passed through me.
Miss Grey chuckled. Her dimples began to pulse.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you what; you can administer your own punishment. Write ‘Hair Puller’ on this piece of cardboard and use that piece of string to hang it from your neck. You can wear it as a sign of your remorse for however long you think is appropriate.
“Does that sound okay, my little lieutenant?”
I nodded.
I hung that sign from my neck and wore it for a full four weeks. Miss Grey had to remove it from me in the end. She said that I’d punished myself enough.
TEN
The egot whimpered each time I wore that sign. It clutched its ribs each time I ignored its advice. Its skin, which was once as red as hellfire, took on a dull and dusty hue. Its hair became an even paler shade of grey.
That’s not to say that I didn’t listen to the egot. Like in the previous story, there were occasions when I followed its advice instinctively. Those occasions were rare. They only took place every few months. But they did take place…
I listened to the egot when it suggested I pass a love note to Stacey Fairclough. I wrote; ‘I love your hair. It looks really pretty’. I didn’t think about what I was doing. I just did it. Firstly, because it was something I genuinely wanted to do. And secondly, because it was true. Stacey’s hair did look elegant. That girl was starting to bloom.
The egot glowed. Its skin glistened for the first time in weeks. And a few strands of its hair recovered their golden lustre.
But when Miss Grey took me off Cupboard Monitor duties, as a punishment for disrupting the class, and when I accepted that punishment without complaining, the egot regressed even further. It started to walk with a stoop. And it started to shed its hair.
During one particularly stressful lesson, in which our class had to recite multiplication tables out loud, I screamed ‘Poo! Piss! Puke!’ at the top of my voice. The egot had crossed its legs, lit its pipe, and suggested that I do it. And I’d done it. Just like that, without even thinking. Although I suppose I had wanted to let off some steam.
The egot immediately regained a little of its strength. Its elfish ears picked up and its eye sparkled for the first time in over six months.
But Miss Grey didn’t react so positively. Her dimples completely disappeared. Her summery dress hung limply from her narrow shoulders. And she made me sit in silence for a full three hours. Three hours!
My mum was also shocked when she found out what I’d done. Her face also turned ashen and gaunt. The love drained from her eyes. And she began to mutter:
“Why can’t you be a good boy? Why do you insist on doing things I wouldn’t do? Why, oh why, oh why?”
She stopped me from watching television for a week. She threw my favourite record in the bin. And she cancelled our monthly trip to the cinema.
I accepted all of those punishments.
And so the egot shrivelled. Its cheeks ended up looking like two stale raisins. Its spherical belly began to sag. Its claws began to fall out. And its body began to shrink.
Then there was the time when Miss Grey helped Gavin with his work. She leaned over us in such a way that her summery dress fell onto the desk in front of me.
I couldn’t resist it. I couldn’t restrain myself. I couldn’t help but listen to the egot!
At its suggestion, I lifted my greedy hand and clenched that delicate cotton. I caressed it. I held it to my eyes and gazed at the image of a Viceroy butterfly. I even caught a glimpse of Miss Grey’s thigh.
And, I must admit, it felt rather epic. My whole body filled with sordid bliss. My heart pounded with uncontrollable glee. And I grew by a full three inches.
The egot also grew in confidence. It also grew in size. It also smiled with uncontrollable glee.
But Miss Grey was screaming:
“Insurrection! Mutiny! Lieutenant Shodkin - know your place!”
Her look of shock and horror brought me crashing down to earth with a bone-shattering bump. Seeing her twisted neck and bulging mouth made me realise what I’d done. And I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe I’d listened to the egot.
I was made to wear kitchen mittens for two weeks after that. They were hot and sweaty, itchy and coarse. They stank something chronic! But I never complained. Even though I didn’t like it, I genuinely believed that I deserved that punishment.
And so the egot became even frailer. Its teeth fell out, its skin turned white and its body shrunk to half its original size.
The egot suffered whenever I accepted a punishment. And that happened a lot. Because, over the months which followed, I was punished whenever anything went wrong. Anything at all.
I was punished when my class’s test results were poor, even though my own results were okay.
I was punished for flooding the toilets. But I didn’t even do it! Honest to god! I don’t know who was responsible, but it certainly wasn’t me.
And I was punished for knocking over a pot of paint. It was an accident. An accident, I tell you! But I got punished for it nonetheless.
It was as if my teachers had a default setting; ‘Something’s gone wrong, let’s blame Yew Shodkin’.
I was guilty until proven innocent. And there wasn’t ever a fair trial. My teachers were my judge, jury and executioner. I kneeled over and they put me to the sword.
I accepted it.
The egot writhed about in pain.
ELEVEN
The egot got smaller and frailer, weaker and meeker. Its feet lost their webbing and its elfish ears went limp. Its flat cap began to fray and its charm began to fade.
It became so pathetic that I was finally able to stop it at source.
It happened on one of those confusing days where the weather doesn’t know if it’s coming or going; swapping opulent horizons for ubiquitous fog; flicking between exultant sunshine and furious clouds.
> Mrs Skellet, our teacher that year, was prattling on about some gory war in ancient Greece. The tyres of fat which encircled her belly were battling with her skirt’s top button. And her perfume was fighting a losing battle with her fetid body odour. She smelled of overcooked chestnut soup.
I was distracted.
I didn’t care much for stories of bloody battles or Trojan horses. So my eyes began to wander. I looked at each pupil in turn. And I thought about what they’d really like to be doing.
Snotty McGill was wrapped up in the lesson. Her beady eyes were transfixed on Mrs Skellet’s spongy lips. So I imagined her as a pirate, swinging from a ship’s mast, waging war like one of the fighters in Mrs Skellet’s stories.
Stacey Fairclough was twiddling a lock of her hair; preening herself like a pompous peacock. So I imagined her as a supermodel, gliding down a catwalk whilst hundreds of cameras flashed away.
Chubby Smith was juggling his man-boobs. So I imagined him as a lion tamer, strutting his booty whilst holding out a hoop at arms-length. He gave the lion a cheeky wink. Then it jumped through the hoop.
Sleepy Sampson was asleep.
I continued to scan the room until I saw something move, suddenly and skittishly, beneath a set of standing shelves.
I stared at that skeletal structure. My eyes were fixed on it.
But nothing happened.
Slow tick followed slow tock.
And then, in the blink of an eye, the school mouse shot out at full speed. It had broken free!
“Yippee!” the egot cheered, whilst clutching its ribs in pain. “Freedom! Yes, yes.”
The mouse scuttled along the skirting board.
The egot tried to jump for joy. It didn’t have the strength to catch any air, but its face did visibly brighten. The semblance of a smile formed on its leathery cheeks. And a sad flicker of hope appeared in its forlorn eyes. In my forlorn eyes.
The mouse shot towards the closed door.
“Let it out!” the egot cheered. It panted. It retched. It composed itself. And then it continued:
“Open the door! You want to help it escape! I think you do! Yes, yes.”
And, you know what? I was about to do it! My chest jolted forwards. I leapt out of my seat!
But it’s like Lao Tzu says; ‘Recompenses follow good and evil, just as shadows follow substance’.
Well, the ‘substance’ of the egot’s influence, which had propelled me forward, was followed by the ‘shadow’ of my self-restraint, which held me back. Action met equal and opposite reaction. My ribs blocked the forward momentum of my innards. My knees locked. And my shoulders buckled.
My spine flipped back and my feet flew forwards. My body was held aloft by the lightness of the air. And my bum crashed down against the hardness of the floor.
My whole class laughed at me. At me! I knew they weren’t laughing with me. I was sure of it.
I was so embarrassed. My face turned completely red.
The egot wasn’t just red-faced. It was red all over! It was engulfed by a ball of smokeless fire. It glowed. It yelled. And it collapsed onto the floor of my occipital lobe, where it lay in a pile of its own cinders.
It looked up at me with utter desperation.
I looked down at it with utter contempt.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Mrs Skellet.
I dusted myself down and returned to my seat.
“The school mouse has escaped,” I continued. “We need to catch it and put it back in its cage.”
TWELVE
The egot hardly spoke after that. I don’t think it had the strength.
It looked like a burns victim, which I suppose it was. And it lived like a geriatric in a hospice. It hardly moved. It spent most of its time bathing in a pool of my cerebrospinal fluid. It was so thin you could see its skeleton. But its eyes were still identical to my own.
I think it still tried to influence me, but its little voice had become so quiet that I could barely hear it. My mind was clear. And so I stopped misbehaving. I finally became a good little boy. A respectable member of classroom society. I wrote inside the lines and everything!
I never talked unless I was spoken to. I never fought or played during class. I never stuck chewing gum on anyone else. Never! Not even once!
I took part in ‘Homework Club’, joined the school choir, and tried to get onto the school football team. (I didn’t quite make it).
I always kept my shirt tucked in, my collar down and my shoes tied. I tried to keep my trousers clean. (I usually failed).
I made a bid to become the class prefect. (I came third in the vote).
But my grades picked up. I came second in my class in science. I came third in an egg and spoon race. And I was even a member of the winning team when our class had a bake off!
My conformity breathed life back into my dear old mother. Whenever she dropped me off at school, she’d still hug me, kiss me and say:
“Be a good boy. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
Her eyes still looked sincere. So honest! So loving!
But there was something new about her demeanour. Something indescribable. Something like hope. Something like faith. It was as if she actually believed what she was saying; that she actually believed I might be a ‘good boy’; that I might not ‘do anything she wouldn’t do’.
If you consider my transformation somewhat far-fetched, dear reader, or if it seems a little unrealistic, please do bear in mind that I have what psychologists call an ‘All or Nothing’ personality. I engage in a process called ‘Splitting’.
I can eat a whole bag of chocolates, or I can refrain from eating any chocolates at all, but I can’t just eat one chocolate and then close the box. I can’t do moderation.
So when it came to behaving, if I was going to do it at all, I was going to do it fully. I was going to obey every single rule, no matter the circumstances. And I was going to look down on anyone who didn’t do the same.
Let me give you a few examples of this sort of behaviour…
When I’d just turned ten my class was told to queue outside whilst our teacher went to find a colleague. Well, it started to rain, so all the other kids went inside. But I obeyed orders. I stood in the rain!
I started to shiver. I caught a cold. All my classmates thought I’d gone mad. Even Gavin Gillis, who was my best friend at the time, shook his head and tutted. Chubby Smith smirked like a chimpanzee. He gave me a cheeky wink.
But I was following the rules. I was proud of myself for that. And my teacher gave me a house point too, so I did feel vindicated in the end.
Another time, when my class was told off for not singing loudly enough in assembly, I sang so loudly that all the birds jumped off their branches! I totally drowned out the sound of every other child!
And then, aged eleven, my obedience actually got me into trouble.
It all started when I needed to go to the toilet:
“Please can I go for a pee-pee?” I asked.
“Why?” Mrs Balding, our teacher that year, replied.
“I need to pee.”
“Really Yew! You should have gone at lunchtime!”
I bowed my head.
I wanted to say, ‘I didn’t need to go at lunchtime’, but I knew better than to answer back. Mrs Balding was nice, but she was strict. One time, she screamed at Chubby Smith because he winked at her! She made Gavin Gillis walk around barefoot all day because he had mud on his shoes!
So you really didn’t want to get on Mrs Balding’s bad side. Oh no! And answering back would have put me on her bad side. So I just sat there, crossing and uncrossing my legs. And, after several uncomfortable minutes, I was finally allowed to go.
“Really Yew! Is it an emergency?” Mrs Balding whined. Her hair, which looked like a bird’s nest, seemed to visibly contract.
I nodded eagerly and ran out the room.
Well, by the time I returned ‘Quiet Time’ had already started. Everyone was sitting at their desks, reading or writing
.
I liked the quiet. It allowed me to daydream.
I dreamt about running through the woods, with bracken between my toes and dry leaves in my hair. I dreamt about splashing about in a salivating ocean. I dreamt about flying through the clouds like a bird.
Sleepy Sampson started to hum.
It was unusual, because Sleepy Sampson usually slept through Quiet Time. And I felt that it was wrong, because you weren’t supposed to hum. When I hummed during Quiet Time I was made to write lines; ‘Silence is golden, hums should be held in’.
I felt that I needed to do something. And so I held a finger over my lips and shushed Sleepy Sampson.
Sleepy Sampson stuck her tongue out. It was u-shaped and roseate.
I scowled.
Sleepy Sampson continued to hum. Her head rocked from side to side. It made her pigtails swing.
“It’s quiet time,” I whispered. “You’re not supposed to hum during quiet time.”
It was a strange thing. A strange thing indeed.
I, Yew Shodkin, breaker of rules and defender of freedoms, was telling someone else to conform! It was as if I’d become a totally different person; empty, generic and docile. But that’s exactly what you get when you apply a process of Operant Conditioning to someone with an All or Nothing personality; a person who is just as extreme as before, but in the completely opposite way.
Sleepy Sampson was still humming. She looked happy. There was a smile on her cherry blossom cheeks. White light flickered in her eyes and a pinkish flush swept across her countenance.
“I’ll tell Miss,” I whispered.
I wouldn’t have told our teacher. That was a hollow threat. And anyway, I couldn’t have told our teacher without speaking, which wasn’t allowed during Quiet Time. But I did want to stop Sleepy Sampson’s humming. I thought I was protecting her from being punished.
Sleepy Sampson yanked my ear. She actually yanked my ear! Can you believe it?
She stretched her rangy arm across our table, grabbed hold of my earlobe, and yanked it down as hard as she could. It hurt something chronic. Stars and dots fizzled around my ear. My blood simmered and my veins pulsed.