Scratch

I am scared of myself and what we've done. Can you tell? As we're standing here, looking down on the result of our actions. I am scared of what I find I have within me.

This tableau could be a scale model of one from years ago, do you remember? No, of course you don't remember. It wasn't me and you then. It was me and another, looking down on the result of our play.

Something bright and shiny, something I loved and cherished from the day it was given to me. A thing I played with, taking care not to damage the shininess of its surface. No scuffs, no grazes, no scratches. We looked down on it, where it lay. He was oblivious. Just a lad, invited over to play, attracted like a magpie to my favourite toy. I was staring at the scratch that let the bright metal bleed through the shiny paint like some obscenely haemorrhaging gash.

It was a tiny thing, a minute scratch, no other damage done, and I felt bruised by its existence.

It isn't fair to apportion blame when these things happen. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't mine. We had only been doing what you are supposed to do with a Matchbox car. We had only been playing with it. It was just that he had played with it so roughly, and I had let him. All those weeks of playing cautiously, taking care of it, loving its perfection, the smoothness of the paintwork, the glory of its sheen; all of that effort then was suddenly gone, wiped out by that one tiny scratch.

It wasn't irreparable, my dad told us, as I continued to stand there, holding the car, my ten year old self trying not to cry. I was as brave as you can be when the best thing you had from Christmas, implausibly better than the other toys because it was so shiny and beautiful and perfect, seemed broken. It wasn't irreparable, dad was right. He took it away and did the things to it that dads with workshops do. The car came back; the scratch was gone, as good as new. Almost. I knew, though. I could see where the scratch had appeared, see the trace left behind where dad had covered it over with a lick of paint. And somehow I didn't love it any more. Somehow it became just another thing, something to be played with, handled as roughly as you like.

Not true of course. It could never be just something. It became a reminder of how we had played too roughly, how I hadn't taken more care, and eventually it became ignored. Pushed away, left behind; not even in a cupboard or on a shelf. Under a bed somewhere, or a bookcase. Abandoned.

We stand here side by side and look at the result of our actions. I want to hold your hand, feel some assurance that what we have done isn't irreparable. I want to feel your skin against mine in that simple gesture, the warmth, the pulse beneath your touch. I want to feel your hand squeeze mine and tell me that a lick of paint will sort this out.

It won't. The gash is bright, bleeding out in slick red against the whiteness of her skin. This isn't a Matchbox car. This is irreparable. I am scared that I have this within me, this ability to take. I stand by and watch. Something, someone that we have made can be broken like this, and I stand by and let it happen.

I have no idea what you're thinking, what words are forming in your head. We made this thing together. We created something bright and shiny and beautiful.

It isn't the gash. It's not even the stillness of her body lying there. It's that we made this thing, nurtured it and loved it, and in one moment of not thinking clearly, it is broken and will not be repaired.

We will, in the next few seconds, pick her up and take her to the hospital. We will answer questions, be interrogated as to how this happened. Will either of us know for sure?

We will bring her home, her gash stitched together, the bone re-set. We will be watched and monitored to make sure this doesn't happen again, that we can be trusted with her care.

It's not the trust of other people, though, is it? It's the trust we have in ourselves, in each other. It's the scratch that lies just beneath the surface now, covered over by a nifty paint job; the thing that will drive us and mean that holding your hand won't be a reassurance any more. You didn't take mine quickly enough, and I held back from seeking yours, and now I am scared of myself and what we are capable of. The myriad hurts that we can inflict, that will follow on from this.

You scoop her up into your arms and carry her out of the house. I follow, securing the door behind us, opening the car for you to sit inside. I drive.

She isn't dead, but maybe we are.

© J R Hargreaves 2006