Page 17 of A Dead Man's B-Side
I shrugged, deciding to go with the only truthful answer I could find, “I don’t know.”
His head tilted to the side like he simply couldn’t accept that response, careless of the attention he’s attracting from my fellow schoolmates. “You don’t know your own name?”
I hated him for the condescending tone he’d taken on. “I know my name.”
I couldn’t help the blood pumping in my veins. I never did know how to control my anger, but what scared me more was the depth of the anger itself.
I watched him closely, but there was none of that slight smirk playing across his lips or that sharp amusement in his eyes that I’d grown to know.
And then it hit me.
He didn’t recognize me.
I didn’t hold it against him; in fact, the news brought me nothing short of solace.
Of course, an irrational part of me felt faintly wounded, but I could lick my wounds more easily than I could face him.
He watched me a moment longer with parted lips and narrowed eyes, as if he were trying to place me, before shaking his head,determining the task too tedious, and moving along with his job.
However, the damage had already been done. I could feel the heat of eyes watching me from all around the classroom throughout the hour-long lecture–strange looks of curiosity at the new student whom they hadn’t noticed.
When the bell rang, I moved slowly, knowing I’d be too much of a target if I scurried away like a mouse running from a cat on the hunt.
I made sure to trickle out, among the student body, but Mr Browne didn’t seem to bother considering the attention I hadn’t wanted to garner. “Miroslav, stay behind, please.”
I shuffled to a stop, knowing in the back of my mind that this was coming, and let out a deep breath, tilting my head back and waiting for the students, and their attention by proxy, to ebb.
I’d come to Castle Hill for a place to hide. What I did not account for was having to hidewithinCastle Hill. Mr Browne watched me for a few moments, and I wanted to stab his eyes out with the pens from the basket on his desk. “Is there something you want to discuss?...”
He scratched the back of his neck with an abrupt smile. “Sorry, you just remind me of someone, is all.”
He ran a hand over his hair and released an awkward chuckle.
Mr Brownewas an older man, I’d guess late thirties.
He looked only slightly older since the last time I’d caught sight of him. It was probably why his students were so fond of him. He understood them, could relate to them to a certain degree. He waslike the cool, older brother they looked up to.
“Is there something you wanted?” I made sure to give nothing away.
He snapped his fingers and pointed at me in remembrance. “Yes! Yes, I wanted to see how you were settling in. I know it’s hard to move countries and whatnot, but I hope it wasn’t too troublesome.”
A murky part of my memory told me the dean had said something similar, but I digress.
“It’s fine. I’m settling fine. Thank you for asking.” I even threw in a small smile. Albeit how strange the strain on my facial muscles felt.
He hummed contemplatively before nostalgia washed over him. I could see the way his eyes detached from the present with an almost serene look. And I, like a fool, followed along with him.
Growing up, my father hated the law and loved money, so, naturally, he went into business. Forgoing the degree and in search of endless riches, he indulged in a multitude of deals that only ended in loss. We weren’t by any means living a comfortable life, but it wasn’t until the knocks that rattled our low-income apartment at ungodly hours, did I begin to wonder what my father really did for a living. Men came in and out of our house, sometimes with tattoos and a strong scent of smoke following behind them but always leaving with a trail of blood.
When my father would stagger out of the room they’d been locked in for what felt like hours, I came to understand, at the ripeage of five, what line of business my father had chosen to dabble in.
My mother, on the other hand, was a nameless character in my childhood. Always there but never present. Either high on heroin, her drug of choice, or vomiting the after-effects away before promptly falling asleep right there on the cold and grimy tiles of the bathroom. I guess it was safe to say I did well on my own; I was an easy child.
I dressed myself for school, though in old, scroungy clothes that were the butt-end of every joke for years from my peers.
I fed myself with whatever I could find in the dusty, cobweb-infested kitchen or resorted to stealing. A pack of noodles here, a bag of chips there.
When I turned ten, with enough knowledge of the sketchy streets and dark alleys that had played a role in raising me, I became the corner boy. I was tasked with delivering packages to people. Sometimes they’d be rolled-up newspapers, and other times it'd be a crockpot of food. Unbeknownst to me, I was a drug mule of sorts. Moving anything of worth to bad people through a child was smart. Unethical, sure, but it paid well–fed well.
