Slights by Kaaron Warren

didn't tell Dougie Page everything. I didn't say: I have to make the most of life now, because I know what's coming later. All that shit about the afterlife, those people who wait for you in the light, it's shit. What's waiting is a bunch of people who want revenge. That's what everyone sees. I have never seen the golden path, the sun-dappled air, the faces of people who love me. Anyone who says they do must be lying. There is no journey; I awaken in the place I am going, like a kidnap victim blindfolded until the prison is reached, so the escape route is lost. I am in the centre of a cold, damp room; I can feel mildew sinking into my lungs, though I can never remember breathing. I've been there three times. Once, when the car crashed. Not long after, I was there briefly when my heart arrested in hospital.
      And at seven, I nearly died. That's when I went to the room for the first time.

    Even at seven I knew what the smell of death was, because of what Peter did when I was five.
      I was already, at five, considered very tough at school, mostly because of the scar over my right eye from a terrible fight Peter and I had. It seems hard to believe, that a girl of three and a boy of five could have such a war.
      I had been given a felt picture set by our kindly, childless Uncle Dom.
      He gave us plenty of presents. I also had a wonderful happy face clock, which Mum kept high up in the kitchen because it had too many sharp edges. That's why Dom gave me soft felt this time. Peter got a squishy car which didn't do anything except squish.
      Dom was Dad's brother.
      The felt set is long gone, though I found strands of it buried in the backyard.
      He was our favourite uncle, and we were not supposed to see him.
      I was playing with my felt picture set, seeing how many pieces of felt I could fit flat on the base. It was difficult work, because if I put a star in the wrong place, a triangle may not fit across the page. I believed that every piece should fit. Regardless of the number of times I am proven wrong, I continue to desire the pieces to fit.
      It was minutes, at least, that I worked. I was left with too much blue space; nasty cracks, shapes, expanses which I wanted to cover. I remember clearly the disappointment I felt on seeing that blue space.
      I raised my head from the board, preparing to shout for my mother. She would come and fix things, as we all imagine our mothers will do when we are very young.
      Peter stood in the doorway.
      I found out later he had been staring at me for minutes, standing in the doorway waiting for my attention to shift to him.
      He gave me such a look my mouth was stopped. He threw my happy face clock at me; it cut my skin but did not break. This was considered a miracle in some circles. The pain I felt, the stitches, the hospital, the fear, did not seem miraculous to me.
      I could be proud of the scar, though. It made me scary for my first day at school. I had very short hair and my first teacher, Mrs Langdon, thought I was a boy and called me Steve. I made the most of it. Acted the bully, went to the boy's toilets, weed standing up. Glenn Guest had a good look once, and said, "You haven't got a willy," so I pissed on his feet.
      My brother ruined his reputation by trying to boss me. It was my third week of school. That was a memorable week; I was finally allowed to have my own clay. I was the last child in class to receive mine, because you had to pass a test, and I had no memory for these things. You had to recite where you lived, your telephone number, and "I must not talk to strangers."
      "What's a stranger?" Lisa Sargeant asked. She was the kid in class who asked questions. She was nudged throughout the day to ask when playtime was, could we do work outside today. I did not keep track of any of my school companions, because they meant so little to me, but I think if she had become a journalist I would have heard.
      "A stranger is someone you