TRIGGER WARNING: DOMESTIC ABUSE & ALCOHOLISM

Out of the pair of us, I was always the one who got beat by our father. Barney was the lucky one; he didn't have the motor-mouth I inherited, my nagging sense of self-righteousness or a sloppy sense of self-preservation. For so many years Barney grew up oblivious to the anguish our father put us through: excused my ropy scars as incidents with industrial farm tools, excused my bulging bruises as farmyard encounters with less pleasant animals and excused the weeping wounds as typical thoughtless childhood injuries.

But I can't be incensed over a child's innocence. I could've done with a little more innocence. I learnt at an unfair age that the world isn't a fairytale and no hero is going to swoop in and rescue me from all of my problems. I had to be my own hero; not to mention my ma's.

Sure, a ten year old isn't a monolithic meat shield, but it is another blur standing between a miscalculated fist and its target. And anything to delay my ma' getting another bludgeoning was worth it; after all, she always took the brunt of the beatings. I was lucky to scramble away with a black eye and a bloody nose.

Not to say that my injuries went unnoticed to everyone my age.

I remember the first time Kate came close to rumbling me about the horrors of my home life.

Our classroom was a dismal space. Creaky windows too stiff to open in the stuffy summer, tatty displays with pieces of paper hanging off with frayed edges and a chalkboard marked with scratches and dust from previous lessons. The desks were always lopsided, the chairs had a few bolts loose and the magnolia paint on the walls was chipped and vandalised.

How they could call such an uninspiring space with unimaginable teachers an 'education environment' still bamboozles me.

Idly, I jotted down information about the American Civil War, noted that had been magnified on the chalkboard straight out of the textbook. By then, I had mastered the art of mindlessly translating notes onto the page without asserting a single drop of attention.

Amidst my industrious copying, a gash had reopened on my upper arm during class, and it had gone amiss to me that a small streamer of blood was trickling down my arm and a scarlet splodge was soaking into the sleeve of my t-shirt. But my eagle-eyed friend - my only friend - was quick to slip me a torn slip of paper inquiring about the matter.

The tatty scrap read, in Kate's flawless handwriting: 'You're bleeding, what is it?' And demonstratively, a droplet of red dripped onto the white paper.

Awareness drawn to the warm dribble of blood and the sting of the cut, I clutched my arm. In my panic, I used to paper to mop up the blood, whilst having a condescending look shot at me by Kate. It was unsanitary, but necessary.

I nodded a 'thank you' to Kate for her discretion, I didn't need the rowdy kids to take note that I was springing leaks like an old ship. I swear to you, highschool kids can smell weakness a mile off and will exploit it once they've sniffed it out. 

Another shred of paper was slipped onto my desk. 'When did you hurt yourself?' The loopy handwriting read.

I flipped it and as the teacher turned to put chalk to chalkboard, scribbled back 'I'm a klutz. Probably did it on the farm.' And subtly nudged it back towards her, keeping my face devoid of any nervous tells.

She rumpled her nose as she read it. Katie had alway been damned perceptice, annoyingly so. She was quick to scratch out a message back and shoved it towards me with a interrogatory eyebrow raise.

'How in the hell do you accidentally cut your upper arm?' I rolled my eyes and snuck a glance at her. She was sat upright with pursed lips and crossed arms.

Anxiety starting to bubble under my skin, I shrugged nonchalantly and scribbled a note back. 'I'm Clint Barton, I breathe and I get myself into trouble. Is it really so difficult to believe?' And with a clammy hand I posted the note back to her.

I heard her sigh impatiently and she rolled her eyes in sync. Her ballpoint made furious scraping noises as she jotted back a note. With a flourish of her wrist it was handed to me. 'Yes it is. No one randomly had a gushing wound on their upper arm.' and to put emphasis on her point, she had repeated 'upper arm.' in bolded letters.

I hesitated, the tip of my pen hovering over the flimsy piece of paper. Swallowing, I wrote back. 'I'm fine.' Insubordinately, I handed it back, scowling.

She made an unimpressed tutting noise and another pestering note was slipped against my hand. I tried to push it back, but it was crammed into my fingers. I flicked it back, but Kate wouldn't let up.

"I'm fine!" I mouthed to her, waving the folded bit of paper at her.

"You're not!" She mouthed back, her hands flapping about animatedly. "What the hell happened to your arm?" She pointed indignantly at it. "It's not stopped bleeding, by the way!" She facepalmed.

I applied pressure to my upper arm and scowled back. "None of your business!" I mouthed back, my face set like stone.

At the back of my mind I was aware of my name being called, but Kate was mouthing something angry and indecipherable. "Mister Barton..." It was a bored drawl. "Mister Barton?" I cocked my head at Kate, my eyes trying to follow the quick movements of her lips. "Mister Barton." The tone was clipped and impatient. "Mister Barton!"

My attention was ripped from Kate and I turned abruptly in my seat, looking like a bemused deer in the headlights. 

"Am I failing to hold your attention, mister Barton?" The wrinkly old prune of a man tilted his thinly wired spectacles at me, peering through the clouded lenses of his highly magnified glasses. 

I sat back in my chair, twisting under the uncomfortable accusation of his gaze. I could feel the attention of every pupil in the class on me. "No, sir. Sorry, sir."

His attention slid from me to the dark haired girl beside me who was frowning deeply. "And you, Miss Bishop... Is there a problem?" He said, his voice sickeningly patronising - it made my gut twist up with repulsion. 

"No," she said sharply, glaring at him. 

He was about to pivot and return to filling up the board with more scrawlings when he did a double take at me. "Mister Barton, you're bleeding, do you need to go to the school nurse?" His eyes bloomed behind his comedic glasses. 

I braced my hand over the wound caused by the catching of my father's wedding ring on my skin and winced. "No, sir. It's fine. Just a silly cut. I'm fine." I heard a few chortles at the back of the class and it took all of my strength not to weep at their amusement. I could feel my eyes prickling as tears threatened to appear - they really had no idea. 

They had no idea of how the memory replays in my mind as the pain is reawakened. In vivid detail. I can feel the rush of fear through fraught veins. I can feel the ice of my father's shadow as he looms over me. I can see the hand raised and feel the anticipation of it being brought down on me. I can remember every second in crisp and clear detail. And they'll never know. They can't know.

It takes strength to sit there and swallow the lump in your throat, to furl your fists to steady your hands and drive back the tears. So that's what I did. 

I spent the remainder of the class fighting the urge to burst into tears. 

Paranoia was eating away at me as I heard some of the kids at the back of my class whispering about me, about how I hadn't stopped holding my arm to plug the wound, about how I didn't take a free ticket to the school nurse. In reality, I didn't have the guts to brave the probing of the school nurse, questions about how I got the injury; though, with medical training, she could probably work it out. 

Every word that my teacher spoke fell on deaf ears, I was too absorbed in my ball of panic. Survival was my mission in that moment, subdue my breathing, slow my heart rate, breathe out the sense of danger. 

And that's when my home life started affecting my education career - it was like watching my livelihood swirl down a drain in front of me. 

When that school bell finally rang and we were dismissed, it popped my bubble of anxiety. It was a rush to shove my workbook and pencil case into my bag and a fumble of feet to sprint out of the classroom. But I was held back by a stern voice calling my name. 

"Barton!" It was like the crack of a whip. "Not so fast..." He instructed and my shoulders sagged.

Freedom was a hair's breadth away, and I tried to ignore that yearning for fresh air. But I didn't let the agony show on my face. "Yes, sir?" I pivoted, making eye contact with Kate and shrugging. 

My teacher removed his glasses and took to polishing the lenses with the length of his tie. "Hang back for a moment, I just want a quick word." And then promptly placed them on the tip of his nose again.

As the last of the pupils filed out, I watched Kate loiter in the doorway, just out of view - but within earshot. 

The old man sighed, and his cold beady eyes went soppy. It was unusual, unnerving. "Your arm, son... Are you sure it's alright?" He rested calmly against the desk, hands clasped before him.

I forced a meek smile. "Fine, sir. Why wouldn't it be?" And this is the lie you lead when the truth is too horrible for you to accept. You become a fallacy. You live the lie. My reality has become dissolved by denial, falsified by faked smiles and ruined by fear. 

What was I supposed to say? 'Yeah, my dad abuses me and my mum because he has anger and alcohol issues, but I'm not supposed to tell you that, am I? Because you call the principle, the principle calls ma', and ma' tells dad. Dad gets angry, dad hits ma'.' That's just not being real. I'm not stupid enough to give my dad a genuine reason to lay a hand on me. 

"You were bleeding, that's why you're not fine." His bushy eyebrows drew together. "Do you mind if I take a look?" He gestured towards my arm.

I must've physically paled and shrivelled because he looked overcome with guilt suddenly. 

"If you don't want me to look, that's fine..." The man said, holding up two palms. I flinched as he raised his hands and a quiver of revelation crossed his features. "Clint, if there's something you want to tell me-"

"There's nothing I want to tell you," I said full of confidence, my sweaty hand in a white knuckled grip on the strap of my backpack. "Nothing. It's fine. I'm fine." He could probably see me shaking in my soccer shoes, but I brave faced it. By then I had mastered the art of brave facing.

There was a moment of silence where he pursed his lips, searching my eyes for any evidence of a lie - which I was sure he found in the luster of my eyes. Then he bowed his head and his lips parted in the form of the words "Dismissed." 

I had no choice but to leave the classroom slowly, pretend like I wasn't on the cusp of crying. And when I finally crossed the threshold into the crowded hall, the probing wasn't over. Kate listed away from the wall and wandered beside me.

"What was all that about?" She pestered.

Receding further into myself "It's none of your business," I grumbled, an aversion to raising my voice.

She gave a weak huff. "It's my business when I get told off for caring for you."

I turned to her with a jutting bottom lip. "No one asked for you to care for me..." I gave a sniffle. Not many people dared. 

Clearly having tired of being patient she stopped in her tracks and grabbed me by the shoulder. "Just tell me!" She shrieked.

I cowered almost instantly and wrenched myself free of her grip. "Please, just leave me alone!" I squeaked, rushing away down the corridor, trying to find the nearest restroom to lock myself in. 

A/N - My sincerest apologies for not updating yesterday! "Life is what happens when you're making other plans," am I right? I was completely caput after the AC/DC concert on Saturday night, and I blame a certain boy for my aversion to writing yesterday evening. 

Dedication goes to angeltears10! x