About me
Hi, I’m Christopher and I hope you enjoy this story. It’s part of something larger, probably a novella or a short novel, and will no doubt evolve and take shape over time.
Writing has always been a passion (or should that be obsession?). I studied literature at university and went on to complete an MA in the Teaching and Practice of Creative Writing in my mid-twenties. More recently, writing has become a core part of my healing journey as I come to terms with and work through the abusive events of my early childhood.
Writing this story wasn’t easy.
Although it reveals almost nothing about my historical experience of child abuse, it alludes to feelings which are tender, vulnerable and very, very young. My small child was particularly anxious about me putting these words to paper. He was scared someone would ‘find out’ and that he would get into trouble.
Trauma lingers in the mind, emotions, and especially the body. It’s the dark world beyond the door, which in my case remained tightly shut and locked for many years. I believe that creative writing offers me, and others like me, an opportunity to give shape and form to these locked away feelings, to give meaning to suffering.
“…it is not because the mechanism is working wrongly that I am ill. I am ill because of wounds to the soul, to the deep emotional self…” DH Lawrence
The Wounded Man
When I awoke, the boy was nowhere to be seen. The previous day I imagined I had felt his eyes on me, watching intently but with the wariness of an animal that does not wish to be approached. Once or twice I thought I caught a glimpse of him as he slipped between the trees, but each time I stopped to look he had bolted like a young deer into the shadows. I had come to see this as a sort of game we played. He would hide and make as if he wasn’t there and all the while I would keep up the pretence, sneaking glances when I thought he wasn’t looking.
I climbed to my feet and brushed myself down. My rucksack lay next to my sleeping mat and I foraged through its many pockets for a lighter. My plan was to drink coffee, smoke a cigarette or two and ease myself into the day. The boy would be close by, I thought. If I scanned the trees long enough I was sure to catch a glimpse of his bright red puffer jacket retreating into the deep cover of the forest.
It was a cold morning and first light had begun to seep between the trees. As the darkness lifted, a fine mist hung in ribbons above the ground. Last night’s fire was dead, its warmth buried beneath a thick, grey blanket of ash. I swept the remains into a tidy pile with my boot. I emptied and repacked my rucksack at least three times. I dug out the coffee pot. I scavenged twigs for kindling and stacked them neatly beside the fire pit. When I was satisfied everything was in order I set to work on the fire.
I sat cross-legged on the ground, watching tendrils of smoke rise from the ashes. Soon enough, the first flames curled around the nest of twigs I had built and I congratulated myself on bringing the dead back to life. As I waited for the flames to die back and the heat to settle, the sun edged over the horizon. Partially hidden by trees I felt its warmth first, watched beads of gold dance in the shade of the forest. I told myself the world was not broken after all. One day I would return home and it would all be there waiting for me: my wife and daughter, the house we had worked so hard to afford. Our life just as I had left it.
For one glorious moment my head was almost empty. The nightmares of the previous night had faded, leaving only niggling fragments and a sense of unease. Then, like birds flocking home to roost, the fears crept in one by one. I distracted myself with unnecessary lists: coffee, breakfast, kill fire, pack bedding, check rucksack. Structure. Order.Repetition. Behind this machine-like patter lurked a dark spot, a blankness I pretended not to see. Like a black hole it formed a ripple in my reality so immense I was terrified it would send me hurtling off into space.
I filled my coffee pot and set it in the embers, lined up mug, spoon, sugar and the all-important cigarette on a flat rock, a safe distance from the heat. The coffee murmured gently on the fire. I thought about lighting the cigarette but decided against it. Coffee first, then cigarette. While I waited I unwrapped a chunk of bread and a slab of cheese and began to eat. The food helped ground me and my fears subsided a little. I stuffed the last of the bread into my mouth, wiped my hands on my jeans and was reaching for the handle of the coffee pot when something startled me.
The noise seemed to come from every direction at once, reverberating through the forest like the howl of a wounded animal. A primitive fear stole over me, jarring and jangling at the back of my brain. Panicked, I leapt up and knocked the coffee pot off its trivet with my arm. Hot liquid sprayed the fire, and the flames I had tended so lovingly were put out in an instant.
My reaction was as immediate and instinctive as if I’d been punched in the gut. I kicked the embers, sending sparks flying in all directions. I swore viciously and spun round, searching out another target for my rage. I lunged for the rucksack and was about to hurl it when I stopped. For a moment I had become a spectator in my own drama, watching the chaos unfold and the familiar scene play out. With a shock I realised I was seeing myself as a stranger and wondered how I had arrived at this point.
The urge to run was overwhelming. I let the rucksack slip from my fist and fall to the ground. For the first time in a long while I allowed the rage to bubble through my system, resisting the call to stuff it down. I breathed in lungfuls of air, took in the soft fragrance of the forest. Eyes closed, I felt the terror of my past narrowing sharply to a dark point in my heart. The howling I could hear was that of a child, a cry of the purest pain that made me feel sick to my stomach. I thought again of the boy and felt ashamed.
When I found him he was curled like a sleeping fox against the massive trunk of a beech tree, the red of his jacket a flag against the olive greens of the forest. His tiny frame heaved and shuddered, arms wrapped tightly around his body, hugging the knees. I crept forwards not wishing to startle him, feeling like an intruder in someone else’s dream. I cleared my throat. I coughed twice hoping he would hear, but the sobbing and wailing continued. I crouched next to him and was about to place a hand on his shoulder when I froze.
It was no longer the boy’s howling I could hear but the painful thud of my own heart. A creeping terror seized me and my chest and shoulders stiffened. I clambered to my feet and looked sharply around. The forest was changing, peeling back like a veil. Summer leaves curled and clenched, withered before my eyes then fell to the ground. The soft shade began to pale and blister like an old-fashioned film reel, letting in the fiercest, sharpest light.
I reached an arm out to steady myself against the old beech tree, but it was no longer there. The forest had vanished and in its place stretched mile after mile of desert: empty, vast, featureless. I looked up in awe as the dawn colours drained from the sky. Thick banks of grey cloud boiled then seemed to fall away. Behind them lay the purest blue I had ever seen, a slowly brightening field that grew more vivid until its glare pained my eyes and I looked away.
Incredibly, the boy had not moved at all. He was lying in the same position, legs drawn up, anoraked arms hugging his knees. His shoulders shook with the effort of his sobbing. His eyes were so tightly shut I could see the tendons in his neck bulge against the collar of his jacket. He remained locked inside himself, seeing only the darkness within.
I called to him softly, using a name I had not heard for many years. The effect was unexpected. The sobbing faltered then subsided, giving way to a series of animal-like snorts and sniffles. I watched in amazement as the hunched shoulders relaxed and the boy’s breathing returned to a normal rhythm.
I repeated the name, and this time more tenderly. Now he sat up, levering himself off the ground with his elbow, looking at me with a mixture of eagerness and fear. Again I sensed the landscape shift and change: dry desert to green forest, light to dappled shade. New shoots appeared. Trees sprang from the earth, branching and greening, unfurling their leaves. I heard the call of wrens, chaffinches and treecreepers, felt the gentle warmth of the sun burn through the mist. All the while I watched the boy regard me with distrustful eyes. I wondered how to begin.
Text & Artwork by The Unnamed Survivor
Wow! The Wounded Man is a truly excellent piece of writing, Christopher. Thank you, I really enjoyed reading and am left with appetite for much more.
What a gift.
Thanks Simon for your kind comments. I’m really happy you enjoyed the story. All the best, Christopher.
Hi Christopher. This is a stunning piece of writing. I savoured every word, every beautifully crafted sentence. But what moved me most was the tenderness with which you described that little boy. His vulnerability and pain drew out an intense compassion from within you. I would love to discover how this precious relationship unfolds. Thank you so much for sharing your story with us. Steve.
Hi Steve,
Thank you so much for your comments and generosity. Looking back on this piece I can see just how far we have travelled together, that small boy and I. As you say, a precious thing.
I’m also looking forwards to finding out how this story unfolds!
With gratitude,
Christopher