Young Writers Society

Hate is a very strong emotion when it’s flowing through your veins. I know hate, like some people despise spiders or wasps, I despise him. He is out at the moment, at his favourite pub, just down the road, so he does not have far to stagger home, blind drunk, any further and he’d end up sleeping in a gutter. I’m 14 years old, and I know what’s coming. My mother knows what coming too. She’s sat stiffly on the sofa, back straight, staring at the TV, but she’s not watching it. She does not look at me as she says,

“Please Johnny, don’t make him angry, please” she’s begging with me, her son. I remember her once, years ago, when my real father was alive, then they both walked down the beach, hand in hand, close together while I ran and played in the sea. Then, I remember, she walked proudly, they both did, my father and mother. Heads up, arms linked, backs straight, my parents. Then my father died, in a car accident five years ago. Two years ago my mother married him.

He insists I call him daddy, but I don’t, I don’t even talk to him. He ruined my mother, no more walks on the beach, not even a friendly word any more. Now he just makes her do what he wants. He hits her when dinners cold or when it’s burnt, and he hits her harder when he’s been drinking, that’s almost every day now. He hits me too, sometimes, says I’ve been a bad boy. He says I’ve not done my homework, that I’m always late. Then he hits me more because I’ve upset my mother and I need to be punished. The clock is ticking loudly, closer to closing time. The door suddenly bursts open…he’s home…

The teacher notices me the next morning. I’m late. I slip in, mutter an apology and try to slide into my seat.

“Johnny, what happened to your face?”

“Nothing” is always my answer, followed by, “I fell down the stairs”, or “I was in a fight” it was the fight excuse today.

“Go and wait outside a moment Johnny.” I turn quickly, trying to hide my colourful face from my classmates. The teacher follows me out and takes hold of my shoulder. I can’t help it, I yelp and pull away, drawing my left arm closer to my chest, trying to ignore the pain. “Johnny, you get hurt to often, come with me.” He’s taking me to the headmaster’s office. I follow, head down, trying to wish myself anywhere but here. It does not work. My teacher talks to the headmaster a moment before he looks at me.

“Johnny” he says, his voice gentle. “Is there something you want to tell me?” I shake my head quickly, can’t tell, it will just get worse, he’ll hurt mother even more, and that’s not good. “Johnny, your teacher and I are worried about you – we can’t help you unless you walk to us. What happened Johnny?”

“Got into a fight” I mutter. My swollen lips make it hard to talk, my teeth hurt and so does the inside of my cheek where it was cut.

“Very well” I know I can go now. As I reach the door he says, “Oh, I saw your father last night in the pub and he said…”

“He’s not my father!” I yell suddenly. I can’t take this anymore, I don’t want to be hurting any more. I don’t want mother to be hurt anymore. “He’s not my father.” I say again, quietly this time.

“I’m sorry, he’s not your father. All the same he was telling me you’re not doing your homework and it’s upsetting your mother.”

“He’s the one hurting her, not me!” I shout, then I remember I can’t tell and I clamp my mouth shut.

“Johnny, I can help you, I can help your mother as well, but please, talk to me, it’s the only way I can help you both.”

“Help mother?” I say, looking up at the headmaster to see him nod.

“Promise?”

“I promise you Johnny, I can help your mother if you tell me what happened.” I am tempted by his offer to help my mother. I am stood at the fork in my life, down one side, I stay quiet, I live in fear for four more years, my mother for many more. The other, I say something, anything, and I help mother, we are not hurting any more, we are both free of him. I tell, everything spills out to my headmaster, the whole story, everything, and he will help me.

My headmaster kept his promise. My stepfather is now in jail, far away, and he can’t come near my mother and I again. I’m 16 now, taller, and I have friends. I’m going to college soon, and I’ve got plans for my life. My girlfriend and I love each other, and we are taking it slow, she understands me, she know what happened and why I get nervous about relationships. She understands. Mother is seeing another man, a decent man, and they to are taking it slowly.

I’m 36 now, married, to my girlfriend of my teenage years, two children, 10 and 6 years old, another on the way. I know I will not turn into my stepfather. I work with victims of domestic violence now, helping them, as I was once helped. I will never forget what happened to me, but I will not let it lead my life, I have moved on now, I will help others move on. I work with the children, 16 years and under, sometimes it’s almost heartbreaking, but I am rescuing lives and putting their tormentors behind bars, and that matters to me.


A short story i wrote a while ago, any comments welcome

Kept me drawn in, reminds me of a book called "A Child called It"

"" He is now in fail, far away""
I think you mean jail.

It seems REALLY unrealistic that the headmaster would kill for a kid he barely knows. (That's what I'm assuming happened).

Otherwise pretty good read.

??? the headmaster didn't kill anybody, he simply got Johnny refered to Social Services and his stepfather went to jail. No one died.

That is confusing..

My headmaster kept his promise. He is now in jail, far away, and he can’t come near my mother and I again.

You jump to he, right after you talk about the headmaster.


I liked the rest though. It reminds me of 'a child called it' too.

I've changed the "he" to "my stepfather" that should sort it.

I've never read a book called "a child called it" who wrote it?

This story is good. It didn't grip me much, the story sounded like it was told by the child. It could do with a little more description, but apart from that it is pretty good. I see the kid's fear. The problem is that I don't really feel sorry for him, like I feel like crying because he is living this awful life. But it can be hard to do that when you are writing a small story.

“I’m sorry, he’s not your father. All the same he was telling me your not doing your homework and it’s upsetting your mother.”

That should be; you're.

Then she walked proudly, they both did. Then my father died, in a car accident five years ago. Two years ago my mother married him.

I am confused here, please could you explain what you mean by that sentence?

I hate him, I can honestly say I hate him, I will hate him until the ends of the world. I hate him so much.

I think you may of said "hate" too much. It kind of looses its point, maybe use different words and describe how much he hates him, use similes.

He hits her when dinner’s cold or when it’s burnt, and he hits her harder when she’s been drinking, that’s almost every other day now.

It doesn't really make sense to me, maybe this sounds better;

"he hits her harder when she's been drinking, that's almost every day."

Well, something like that. If you want try and change it to something better. I just don't get what you mean there.

He hits me too, sometimes, says I’ve been a bad boy, that I’ve not done my homework, or when I’m late, he hits me.

This is another one of those weird sentences which are confusing.

The whole story sounds like the boy is telling the story. Like he is speaking it. But at the end he is an adult. So he should have a better vocabulary.

Overall. Nice story, you just need to practice on how you describe things. You have good plots.

Oh. I didn't know the "he" referred to his stepfather. I thought the "he" meant the headmaster. That's why I assumed he killed the stepfather.

Thanks for the advice folks. I'll sort it out to make it less confudling.

Thanks again