Not happy. After eight weeks of guiding my Mum and Dad’s particularly dire parental instincts, I felt we had bonded sufficiently well. I have smiled at the stupid faces they pull at me, laughed at their thoroughly irritating ‘silly’ voices and pretended I am okay about their cringeworthy public displays of affection. Yet, despite my tolerance, this week they chose to subject me to the kind of abhorrent physical abuse you read about in novels like ‘A Child Called It’ or ‘A Boy Called Oi’.
My tiny, innocent, defenceless body was pierced by a thousand searing, raw skewers of anguish. And the two adults I have come to trust, in fact, dare I say it, love, stood aside and watched.
“Immunisations”, they called it. “Just a scratch”, they assured me. “For my own good”, they said.
I screamed like a...well, like a baby. A deceived, bitter, cynical baby.
Bruised, swollen, sore, feverish, wounded. And contacting my solicitor.