up with the honour of sharing this space with it, like it has gone, ‘Hmph . . . I guess you can stay.’ I suddenly want – no, need – to get closer. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s because of that muffled, blunted sensation I mentioned before. I don’t seem to feel so much any more.
And that’s a good thing, right?
It’s what I wanted . . . to stop thinking about hard things so much.
To stop hurting.
But the stag is all instinct and senses; a series of powerful needs. Kind of opposite to how I’ve been feeling.
It’s free . . .
The stag’s breath puffs clouds in the cool air. It tears at the grass with its mouth, then slowly chomps away, ignoring me now and totally focused on eating. I’m not important. None of this . . . this shit I’ve been through, is that important.
I’ve never been the wildlife type. But it feels like the stag is the, I don’t know, guardian of all this beauty and I need it to accept me. I would have run a mile from it once. But I’m braver now than I was. I’ve had to be.
Very slowly, I begin to move forwards. It doesn’t move away. It trusts me! I creep a little faster, taking a few more steps, and then . . .
. . . agonising pain rips through me and I’m flat on my back, staring up at the churning sky. Every nerve ending in my body feels like it’s on fire and I can’t move a single muscle. I lie for a few moments completely still, panting, with tears streaming down my cheeks, before the feeling gradually wears off and I can get shakily to my feet.
I’ve been volted before. But this was different. This made me feel, just for a second, like I was dying. Sadness clings to me now. The view that had been all colours a minute before is now just grey, wet and depressing. My fingers and toes burn and my limbs weigh heavy and sore.
I guess I’ve found the perimeter of the camp. I squint ahead of me and can just make out the slightest ripple in the air, now that I’m really looking, like heat reflecting off hot tarmac. You would never know it was here and it’s probably only activated by the tracker on me. I glance down at the stag, which chews on, ignoring me. It probably knew exactly how near I could get to it. How stupid to think it was letting me come close. I wrap my arms around myself as a light rain begins to fall and then start to trudge miserably back the way I came.
Like I said, this place is full of nasty surprises.
History of Terrorism, known as HT, is the part of the training that’s most like regular school. What I can remember of it, anyway.
I didn’t mind school that much when I used to go. Liked mucking around with my mates, anyway. Think I was a bit lippy sometimes. But after Mum got sick I stopped going and although they sent some people round to find me a few times, they didn’t bother after a while. Probably presumed I’d died of pig flu too, like Mum and most of the neighbourhood. It was a crazy time, then.
The HT teacher is called Mrs Sheehy and she’s older than Mum would be now. Maybe fifty or sixty, I don’t know. I’m not good on that. She wears the black clothes they all wear here but hers are a dark skirt and jumper with thick tights and sensible shoes with laces like a nurse would wear.
We sit in a proper classroom with a 3D whiteboard and everything. I quite like pretending I’m a normal schoolgirl, although I don’t even know what year I’d be in now.
The lessons are OK and actually quite interesting in places.
We learn loads about the 2010s when suicide bombers were the terrorists of the day. Hard to get your head round in these days of the anonymous little plaster bomb. Why blow yourself up when you can cause destruction and death so easily?
Those plaster bombs are nasty . I hear they look exactly like the sticking plasters people used to stick on cuts, which is how they got their name. They’re no more than three centimetres square, pale in colour and designed to blend into the background, but packed
And that’s a good thing, right?
It’s what I wanted . . . to stop thinking about hard things so much.
To stop hurting.
But the stag is all instinct and senses; a series of powerful needs. Kind of opposite to how I’ve been feeling.
It’s free . . .
The stag’s breath puffs clouds in the cool air. It tears at the grass with its mouth, then slowly chomps away, ignoring me now and totally focused on eating. I’m not important. None of this . . . this shit I’ve been through, is that important.
I’ve never been the wildlife type. But it feels like the stag is the, I don’t know, guardian of all this beauty and I need it to accept me. I would have run a mile from it once. But I’m braver now than I was. I’ve had to be.
Very slowly, I begin to move forwards. It doesn’t move away. It trusts me! I creep a little faster, taking a few more steps, and then . . .
. . . agonising pain rips through me and I’m flat on my back, staring up at the churning sky. Every nerve ending in my body feels like it’s on fire and I can’t move a single muscle. I lie for a few moments completely still, panting, with tears streaming down my cheeks, before the feeling gradually wears off and I can get shakily to my feet.
I’ve been volted before. But this was different. This made me feel, just for a second, like I was dying. Sadness clings to me now. The view that had been all colours a minute before is now just grey, wet and depressing. My fingers and toes burn and my limbs weigh heavy and sore.
I guess I’ve found the perimeter of the camp. I squint ahead of me and can just make out the slightest ripple in the air, now that I’m really looking, like heat reflecting off hot tarmac. You would never know it was here and it’s probably only activated by the tracker on me. I glance down at the stag, which chews on, ignoring me. It probably knew exactly how near I could get to it. How stupid to think it was letting me come close. I wrap my arms around myself as a light rain begins to fall and then start to trudge miserably back the way I came.
Like I said, this place is full of nasty surprises.
History of Terrorism, known as HT, is the part of the training that’s most like regular school. What I can remember of it, anyway.
I didn’t mind school that much when I used to go. Liked mucking around with my mates, anyway. Think I was a bit lippy sometimes. But after Mum got sick I stopped going and although they sent some people round to find me a few times, they didn’t bother after a while. Probably presumed I’d died of pig flu too, like Mum and most of the neighbourhood. It was a crazy time, then.
The HT teacher is called Mrs Sheehy and she’s older than Mum would be now. Maybe fifty or sixty, I don’t know. I’m not good on that. She wears the black clothes they all wear here but hers are a dark skirt and jumper with thick tights and sensible shoes with laces like a nurse would wear.
We sit in a proper classroom with a 3D whiteboard and everything. I quite like pretending I’m a normal schoolgirl, although I don’t even know what year I’d be in now.
The lessons are OK and actually quite interesting in places.
We learn loads about the 2010s when suicide bombers were the terrorists of the day. Hard to get your head round in these days of the anonymous little plaster bomb. Why blow yourself up when you can cause destruction and death so easily?
Those plaster bombs are nasty . I hear they look exactly like the sticking plasters people used to stick on cuts, which is how they got their name. They’re no more than three centimetres square, pale in colour and designed to blend into the background, but packed
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