Diary entry 12th November
Mum hammered her nails on the kitchen table, the dull clack echoing around the cramped flat on the third floor of a council block in Sheffield. Max, how many times do I have to tell you? she snapped. I asked you not to bring that up again.
I tried to interject, But Mum
No buts! she shot back, almost toppling the coffee mug that teetered on the edge of the counter. Ive got my head full as it is. Do you think its easy starting over from scratch? Finding work? Paying rent?
I curled up beside the battered plate of halfeaten scrambled eggs, the yellow yolk spreading like a weak autumn sun over the kitchen tiles. Outside, a fine drizzle turned the drab estate into a soggy grey tableauninestorey blocks melting into the mist, a few hurried pedestrians looking like ghosts in the mist.
Just the new school I muttered.
What about the new school? Mum snapped, fixing her hair in the cracked mirror propped on the fridge. Cant you stop being so shy? Grow a spine and things will sort themselves out. She snatched up her worn leather satchel, the kind that could barely hold two people side by side, and gave me a final look. Im off to work. Dont expect me back early Ive got a shift at the warehouse.
The door slammed shut, leaving me alone with the cold breakfast and a pounding feeling of worthlessness. The flat fell silent except for the distant hum of traffic and a dog barking in the flat above. I mechanically washed the dishes, packed my battered backpack, and stared at the thought of walking to the new school.
The school was a threestorey brick building from the seventies, a carbon copy of the old onesame sneering glances, whispered jokes behind backs, shoves in the cramped corridors that smelled of cafeteria grease and damp mop water. Only here the cruelty was sharper; no one knew me and nobody wanted to. I was a target, a pastime for bored classmates.
Hey, quiet one! What, Mums boy? they jeered. Tell us, how did your dad ditch you? Their taunts ricocheted off the palegreen walls and into the scuffed linoleum.
During the final break, I was cornered by three senior boys beside the firstfloor toilet, the dim corner where the bulb never seemed to work. One of them, a lanky redhaired lad called Tommy Tomato, grinned with freckles dusting his nose.
Come on, new kid, hand over some cash.
I aint got any, I whispered, trying to slip past.
Dont we all? another grabbed the collar of my threadbare jacket, while Tommy rifled through my pockets. He pulled out a crumpled £5 notemoney Id been saving for groceries after school.
Last of it? I stammered, feeling a cold sweat run down my spine.
Now its ours, Tommy laughed, shoving me against the wall. A punch to my gut made me double over, the taste of dust and damp filling my mouth. Another blow hit my side; darkness flickered behind my eyes.
I didnt make it to the next lesson. Staring at my reflection in the grimy school toilet mirror, water dripping from a leaky tap, I made a decision. I couldnt keep letting this go on.
Within a minute I was on the roof of the school. The old iron door gave way easily, creaking as the wind tossed my hair. Below, the city buzzed: cars growling, dogs barking, children shrieking on the playground. I stepped onto the cold concrete parapet, feeling the roughness under my palms.
A shout snapped me back. A wiry caretaker in a sagging grey sweater lunged, grabbing my jacket and pulling me away from the edge with surprising strength. Stop this, lad! he barked.
Soon the corridors filled with shouts the stern headmistress clutching a pearl necklace, the school counsellor talking about mandatory therapy, my mum arriving from work, eyes swollen from crying, her voice trembling: Are you out of your mind? Trying to embarrass us? Ive got enough problems already!
Their outbursts faded, but the humiliation lingered. The next day I dragged myself to class, the grey building looming like a sentence. New insults piled on top of the old: psycho, suicidal, idiot. Their echoes bounced off the lockers, multiplying.
Then, as I was sinking into my seat, a calm voice cut through the noise. Mind if I sit here?
I looked up. A tall, wiry boy with unusually pale grey eyes stood beside me, dressed in faded jeans, a hoodie, and scuffed trainers.
Plenty of space, I muttered, gesturing to the empty desks.
Great, thanks, he replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
Im Simon, he said, extending a dry, warm hand.
Max, I replied.
Simon turned out to be the first real friend Id had since moving here.
One afternoon on the schoolyard, the autumn sun broke through the bare trees, casting strange patterns on the ground. Simon said, You know whats wrong with you?
What? I asked.
You let other people decide who you are.
I mean?
They called you weak, you believed them. They said you were nothing, you accepted it. How about you decide for yourself?
I kicked at the damp earth, the rainslicked soil turning over beneath my sneaker. And who am I then?
Youll have to find that out, Simon said, his eyes catching the light like silver threads. Come on, Ive found something.
He led me to a small, halfbasement gym in a block not far from school. A peeling sign read Boxing Club.
I cant, I began, eyeing the men sparring.
Just give it a go, Simon interrupted.
I tried. The first sessions were brutalmuscles screamed, the trainer, a stocky man with greying temples and a scar over his brow, barked like a drill sergeant. Yet there was no one laughing at me. My body strained, but slowly something shifted. I grew stronger, and with that strength came a steadier confidence.
Simon never trained himself; he lingered on a cracked bench, watching me. Its not about the power of the punch, hed say as we walked home through puddlereflecting streetlamps, its about believing you have the right to be yourself.
When Tommy Tomato tried to corner me again, I met his stare calmly. He stepped back, muttering under his breath.
See? Simon whispered, grinning. Youve changed.
That night I finally faced Mum at the kitchen table. She was nursing a mug of cold tea, exhausted from her shift.
Mum, we need to talk, I said.
She sighed, What now?
Im your son. I exist. My problems arent just whims.
Something in my voice made her pause, and she looked at me, really looked. Youve changed, she murmured, tears streaking the mascara at the corners of her eyes. I want us to be a family again.
We talked for hours, really listening for the first time in ages. She confessed her own fears about the move, the loneliness, the strain. I spoke about the bullying, the darkness that had driven me to the roof. Somewhere in the middle, we brewed tea, found a packet of biscuits in a cupboard, and the oncecold kitchen felt a little warmer.
The next day Simon didnt show up. His desk stayed empty, but nobody seemed to notice. I asked classmates, teachers everyone acted as if the boy whod helped me with algebra and biology never existed. In the gym, the trainer also pretended he didnt know the lanky kid with the pale eyes whod come with me.
Later, rummaging through my backpack in my modest room now adorned with a few posters and a photo from the gym I found a folded note. It read simply: Youll get through this. I stared at those two words, a small smile breaking across my face.
Looking back, I realise the darkness I felt wasnt a deadend but a crossroads. The roof was never the answer; it was the moment I chose to climb back up, to seek help, to stand up for myself.
Lesson learned: you cant let others write your story you must pick up the pen yourself.
