Insane or Inspired? Book 2 (Part 5)

Daylight Robbery

It must feel strange when adults visit their former schools, particularly if their memories of it are predominantly negative ones. And, certainly, for most people, school represents over a decade of fear, anxiety, stress and trauma, for one reason or another. And yet, it’s the one decade in every person’s life that should have been the most exciting and miraculous; where freedom reigned, where clothing was optional, and where every day was a new adventure. Unfortunately, these magical childhood years can never be recovered. Or even, courtesy of the education system, recovered from.

Teachers themselves represented the main source of terror, for many. In hindsight, however, the apparent authority and menace of these paper tigers can only be seen as ironic. Certainly, no self-respecting adult would allow themselves to be intimidated by even their most feared childhood nemesis. For the abused child had, at last, become a man. He was big and strong now, and in a position to seek revenge, or at least compensation, for the terrible abuse that he suffered. Instead, however, the adult meekly and obediently delivers his own children into the hands of his former abuser.

Why do parents perpetuate such an obvious cycle of abuse? Because they have submitted to a seemingly more legitimate authority than mere teachers: Government. And, by extension, society itself, with its endlessly shifting definitions of normality. We know from history that behaviour once deemed worthy of death, or life imprisonment, is subsequently either accepted as normal, or else celebrated as virtuous. And vice versa. Either way, there are winners and losers in this high-stakes lottery. And those who find themselves on the wrong side of history must either pay with their lives, by conforming to the status-quo, or else choose to become outsiders, and prepare to accept the consequences of having a modicum of self-respect.

I myself was in the unique position of returning to school, not as an adult, but as somebody who had ventured outside of the matrix; as somebody who’d been spiritually awakened. And whilst I’d always been something of a rebel, and a maverick, I was now, unquestionably, an outsider. Precisely how long it would take my former friends to realise this, I wasn’t sure. But certainly the teachers were onto it, straight away. So much so, in fact, that I wondered whether there mightn’t be some kind of technology in use, for detecting independent thought and critical thinking; the two qualities that seemed to be inherently absent from the brains of teachers themselves. Although, realistically, it was more likely to have been this dutifully shared observation, itself, rather than any kind of technology, that set off the alarm bells. In any case, I found myself in the principal’s office, for this, and a string of other infractions. And I hadn’t even had lunch yet.

“Where is your school tie, Lucy?” was his first question.

“Noose, you mean? I threw it away. It’s against my religion to wear a noose around my neck. Jay says that anybody who is stupid enough to wear a noose around their neck deserves to swing from it. And so that includes you, by the looks of it.”

“And who is Jay?”

For some reason, I decided to pretend that it was an initial, rather than a name. “J. You know, like Q or M, in MI6. I can’t tell you who he is, only what he does.”

“Well, as far as I’m aware, we don’t recognise any religion that prohibits the wearing of a necktie.”

“And I don’t recognise your authority to make me wear one. Come to think of it, I don’t recognise your authority, period.”

I had crossed an invisible line, apparently, and it was enough to get me suspended for the remainder of the week. I didn’t go straight home, however. By which I mean, my adoptive home. Instead, I persuaded Claire to ‘bunk off’ for the afternoon, so that we could go clothes shopping. I say ‘persuaded’. I actually bribed her, by pulling out my community credit card and offering to pay for both of us.

“How exactly does this work?” she asked, seemingly a little concerned that we might be doing something illegal.

I replied to her through the changing booth curtain: “I told you, I can use the card for my own expenses, or the expenses of anybody else, whom I deem worthy, so long as they’re female.”

“But, I mean, who is actually paying for it, at the end of the day?”

“The community, I suppose. Or, at least, the men of the community.”

“But why would they do that? What are they getting out of it?”

“This was my question too, initially. But I wasn’t aware of the incredible love that they have, for the Goddess. And, therefore, for the likes of you and me.”

“But I’m sure this money could be better spent. On women in need, for example.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Why not?”

“Because regular people are asleep, which means that they’re supporting the very system that we’re trying to destroy, if only through their acquiescence to it. There are charitable schemes running, such as you might imagine. But not in the absence of education. Just as the money being spent on you, today, is not being spent in the absence of education. This is what I’m trying to do, right now. Picking up your tab is simply proof of what I’m saying; a token of the love that Haven is founded upon.”

Claire emerged looking fantastic, in a sassy autumn dress, with matching coat. “Well, I need to thank somebody,” she said, “because this is freakin’ expensive. My parents are going to think I’ve robbed a bank or something.”

“By all means. The contact address is on the website. I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear from you.”

By the time I arrived home, Max had already had his tea, and was on his way out again, carrying a bag of conkers. “Oh, there you are,” he said, “we were beginning to think that you’d gotten lost.”

“Sorry, I should have phoned.”

“My sister’s in her room, waiting for you.”

“Thanks, Max.”

Not surprisingly, Tink found it hilarious when I told her that I’d been suspended. And she rightly pointed out that I would need to be more careful, from now on. Apparently, in my absence, she’d come up with a name for our victim support group. “Daylight Robbery,” she announced, “on account of the fact that we’ve been robbed of our childhoods, and it happened in broad daylight.”

“Perfect,” I concurred. I then reported on my exchange with Max, that morning, and told her about his romantic gesture.

“You didn’t eat it, did you?” she said, in horror, as if the chocolate had been poisoned.

“Of course I ate it. Who can resist a Rolo?”

“You do realise that he probably wiped his dick on it first?”

“Ew, Tink! Max wouldn’t do that.”

“You don’t know my brother.”

“Or maybe you don’t know him, at least not as well as you think you do.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for it.”

“There’s nothing to fall for. His love is obviously genuine.”

“It’s just a childhood crush, Lucy. You know what boys of his age are like.”

“Then how do you explain this?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a poem that he wrote to me, in his own blood.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“It’s probably just food dye.”

“But that doesn’t explain the profundity of his words. Here, read it for yourself.”

Tink gasped as she carefully read what her brother had written to me. “He must have copied it from the Internet,” she insisted.

“Well, I googled it, and nothing came up.”

“There’s no way on earth that he wrote this, Lucy. I mean, this is Max we’re talking about here. The Bart Simpson of Portsmouth.” She then proceeded to read aloud from the text: “And, lo, thy presence hath turned the gross earth into hallowed ground, thy every step a revelation, thy every touch a salubrious exaltation. The abysmal depths of my heart thou have deigned to grace, arousing passions that ignite my soul, and that lead me as a willing slave into the heavenly ecstasy from whence thou surely came.”

“Good, isn’t it?”

“Oh, please! He can’t even spell most of these words, let alone string them together to form meaningful sentences.”

“Apparently, he can.”

“And this was in the box, with the Rolo?”

“Yep.”

“What else was in the box?”

“I can’t say.”

“You mean, you won’t say.”

“It’s private.”

“Where is that little creep? Max! Max, get up here, right now.”

“I think he went out to play conkers.”

“Conkers? What is this, the nineteen eighties?”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“You, Tink! You seem different, somehow.”

“Sorry…”

“No, don’t apologise. I like it. I’ve never seen you so… energised.”

“I can’t explain it myself, but I have been feeling different. You know, since the coma.”

“She’s been healing you.”

“She has. But then, so have you, Lucy.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“And that’s why I want to protect you from Max.”

“I can handle Max. I think there’s a side to him that you’ve never seen before. Or, perhaps, never permitted yourself to see.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you’d actually acknowledged the tremendous love in him, it might have challenged your bleak worldview. And that’s not something that people typically like to have challenged.”

“He never directed any of his love towards me.”

“Are you sure? Or were you blocking it?”

“How would I have done that?”

“Perhaps by making yourself unlovable, or at least difficult to love. You said yourself that he spent his money on his mother, when you forbade him to spend it on me. He’d have probably spent it on you, had you been a little nicer to him.”

“Just promise me one thing, Lucy: If Max asks if you want to see his bag of conkers, for goodness sake, just say no.”

“I’ve already seen his bag of conkers. At least, in a literal sense. But I don’t think you’re listening to what I’m saying, Tink.”

“No, I am. And, I admit, you may be right, to some extent. But don’t mistake Max for one of your Haven devotees.”

“I don’t mistake him for one. But I definitely see the potential of him becoming one. And that would obviously be good news for you, once I leave.”

To Be Continued