Aaron's Past.

This is one about a character that's been haunting me for some time, I just never had the opportunity to write about him until the topic of Time Travel came up in our Writers group.... Could you let me know if you think I should write more about him? :-) Thanx.

Blank mind, blank face. Teacher droning, eyelids drooping. History assignment, great. Write about your choice event in history. How about a time when there were no teachers?

Aaron! Be quiet back there!

Yes miss, no miss, whatever you say, miss.

Classroom laughing.

Aaron!

Whatever.

School bus. Loud, raucous, like being stuck in a cage of parrots. Peter talking about Napoleon, trying to get everyone debating. Might as well be trying to stop a stampeding herd of elephants by standing in front of it and waving a white flag.

Bus stop, my house. Get off seat, leg muscles protest. Been a long day.

Hey Aaron! Wanna come over after tea?

Nah, thanks anyway Mike, got stuff to do.

A’right, seeya tomorrow, eh?

Raise hand, wave, get off bus. Open gate, walk up path, open door.

Mum! I’m home!

Probably didn’t hear me. Probably drunk.

Walk down hall, go upstairs.

Enter room. Kurt Cobain glaring down from poster covered wall. Hi, Kurt.

No answer, didn’t expect one.

Flop onto bed, reach for remote, turn on the telly. Freeze in horror at the scene depicted.

A kid gets off the school bus. He looks happy, waving at his mates. He’s about nine. A voice over, his voice: “ The new school was great, I’d made some friends, and I felt sure, so sure, that this time would be different to the others.”

Then there’s shouting from inside, sounds bad. Sounds real bad. The kid vaults the wall, and runs up the path. He pulls open the door to see his parents screaming at each other, his father waving a kitchen knife under his mothers nose.

The kid pushes his father, trying to separate them, begging them to stop. And then his face twists in agony as the kitchen knife enters his shoulder, just below the collarbone.

Turn off TV, tears running freely. Rub shoulder; it’s hurting again.

Open drawer, take out photo. Mum and Dad, smiling blissfully at the cameraman, arms encircling each other.

Throw photo frame at wall, watch it shatter.

Get pen, get paper. I’ve got my event in history; it’s been smoldering too long. Time to let it out. Time to write about it.