The Final Cut

He knew there was trouble coming as soon as she closed the door. He knew that as soon as walked home, through that dreaded and only route, he would be bullied by the neighbourhood gang. His childhood was always like this. He was the boy people all picked on. He walked, faster and faster, until he stopped at the sign, the sign that told him he was about to die. He rounded the corner and sure enough, the boys on their bikes spotted him, and rode over. They circled him like sharks after their prey, like vultures waiting for their victim to die, so they could pick his bones clean. The leader rode off, straying from the pack of wolves they were. He put his bike on the stand and walked between two of the bicycles, which had now slowed down, their eyes transfixed on his terrified face. You couldn’t see much of it, because it was covered by the tall, bulky adolescent looking over him like a giant spider about to strike, ironic, as the fly was trapped by the web of bikes. He tried to run, but on of the bikes caught his foot under the wheel, the rider fell off and instantly, they all jumped off theirs and left them lying there as the boy scrambled up and ran for cover.

Through the fish eyed lens of tear stained eyes I can barely define the shape of this moment in time and far from flying high in clear blue skies I'm spiralling down to the hole in the ground where I hide

The bullies beat him, and beat him, and beat him, he was bruised and battered and could hardly walk. He lived, like he did each week. He had been visiting his elderly grandmother, who was dying of cancer. The nurse was staying with her, and answered all house and phone calls so she didn’t have to get out of bed, this is who send the boy back home, as his grandmother needed her rest. Each passing week he became numb to the pain, building up resilience, but each week the beatings got worse, his mother didn’t care. She was too busy with her numerous, and always drunk, boyfriends to care about her only son.

If you negotiate the minefield in the drive and beat the dogs and cheat the cold electronic eyes and if you make it past the shotgun in the hall dial the combination open the priest hole and if I'm in I'll tell you what's behind the wall

The boy was always alone; he had no friends, no life outside his bedroom, always on his own doing his own thing. He amused himself by creating characters in his mind and placing them in far out scenarios. He was often seen at the bus stop, sitting there, smiling to himself, completely alone. He had no solution but to create a better life inside his own mind.

There's a kid who had a big hallucination making love to girls in magazines he wonders if you're sleeping with your new found faith could anybody love him or is it just a crazy dream

The boy grew up. He became a man, and got married, and had children. He had a good adult life, but his life had no good adult. After his terrible childhood, the memories of the beatings, the death of his grandmother which sparked off new ways to torment him, he left home. He walked for hours, days, weeks, he walked until he found a girl. She helped him recover. They fell in love.
He drank too much.
He was violent.
She was scared.
She was beaten.
The children were abused.
He was sent away.

And if I show you my dark side will you still hold me tonight and if I open my heart to you and show you my weak side what would you do would you sell your story to rolling stone would you take the children away and leave me alone and smile in reassurance as you whisper down the phone would you send me packing or would you take me home

Mildew on the walls. Peeling wallpaper. Ripped furniture. He sat alone. He was depressed, like every previous day of his life, albeit a few. The day he left home. The day he met her. The day they were married. The births of his children. He had nothing to do, except create perfect lives in his mind. This soon wore off. It wasn’t like it used to be, he knew what life was like now, he had nothing new to imagine. He slowly became angrier and angrier.

Angry at the gang Angry at his mother Angry at his ‘friends’ He picked up his guitar, threw it through the thin glass window. He picked up the small television and threw it at the wall. He sat in the chair in silence.

Thought I oughta bare my naked feelings Thought I oughta tear the curtain down I held the blade in trembling hands prepared to make it but just then the phone rang I never had the nerve to make the final cut