RuKsaK

Stink’s mother wasn’t a mum we considered attractive, or one that ever could have been. Her face was made from angry lumps, scaffolded on years of spite. When going out her make-up always looked thumped on, hiding a bare face that said less than the make-up did anyway. Her eyes were caked in blue, a bold, oval block of lurid glitter cementing her eyelids, with black rims making an effort to tidy up the shoddy edges. Her lips were coated with a rude lick of ruby, covering just the lips and making them all the more ill-tempered. At thirteen I didn’t really understand make-up and Stink’s mum didn’t help at all.
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We were on our way home, me, Stink and Bryan. As usual we swiped our feet in lazy steps hoping to find any distraction, any reason to arrive home a little later. Often the boredom of quiet streets and the wet dust smell than stayed on them all year round drove us to find entertainment anywhere. A discarded chewing gum wrapper or a dried dog shit was enough to engage us back then.

At the street leading up to Stink’s house we saw his mother and father approaching on their way to the pub. This made us put on a vaguely more determined pace, not one that could be really noticed by a parent. As we got closer we could see the stark coloured islands standing on Stink’s mother’s face. It wasn’t until we were really close that we saw the bad symmetry – she had only completed one eye. It was all the more visible from the mass of chemical cobalt glow which was holding the left eye captive, but had not claimed the right eye at all. It made her face look more than just lop-sided, it was an optical illusion – two sliced heads glued together. Her naked eye was so adrift, scared-looking next to the vicious blue one. It was hard to believe it was intentional, but nobody was going to tell her. Not even her sloping husband, who was walking beside her.

Me and Bryan gawked, though still afraid she’d bark at us. She didn’t. She just gave a precise smirk:
‘Alright lads?’
‘Yes, thank you.’

Then she’d passed us. It wasn’t until time had given us enough distance that we burst out laughing. Except Stink.

Our chuckles damped down as we got to his house.
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His house was grubby and we never took any food he offered us. He knew this and made more point of it as a result.
‘Do you want some bread Ruk?’ waving a cheap, white slice in front of my nose.

No matter how hungry, I’d never eat there. The bottom of the sink no longer existed, or at least no expeditions were being attempted. The cooker had spewed on itself, and left heavy brown streaks all over it. It all smelt of ugly, old oil.

The rest of the house had plates, newspapers and ashtrays, which had more than satisfied their purpose, dotted around – waiting more weeks to be picked up or just moved by feet. Dust was clamped to everything. We used to slap his sofa and giggle at him, with his disapproval, at the cartoon clouds growing in the air.
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I went upstairs to use Stink’s toilet because I really had to. In the bathroom I saw open cosmetic pots scattered around the sink. I plunged my finger into the sharp blue tub and smeared it around my left eye, rubbed it over my eyebrow, under and on the lid. It looked like a ultra-violet punch mark.

I walked into the room downstairs and Bryan pointed to me with a happy-wide, outraged mouth. It took about three seconds for his laugh to howl out, by which time his arms were fully hugging his guts.

Stink bust open the laugh, throwing his forehead clear at my nose. I felt a quick thud of blood rip out of me and then start rolling down my top. It wasn’t broken, but the blood wouldn’t stop. Stink stood in front of me now, the blood ordering him to be scared.
‘Stink – fuck off home now!’

I couldn't work out why I said that, but he ran out and up the stairs. It was the first time Stink drew blood from someone, not the last.
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About a week later Stink left home for the first time in his life – the first out of three.
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You can read Stink and the suicides, part 3 here.

Monday, April 04, 2005

Stink and the suicides - part 2