I was six years old when I was branded a thief.
You understand that I don’t mean literally branded–I escaped that! I mean I was caught red-handed with stolen goods. There was no doubt but I was guilty. I was caught stealing a sherbet dab–for a dare by some older lads. And I ended up in the local police station, miserable: sitting on a wooden bench to one side of the sergeant’s desk, waiting for my mam to come. I remember looking down to hide my shame–watching my legs dangling above the dirty floor. My tears plopped dark, fat circles in the dust.
After the rare scalping I’d been treated to by that sergeant, I fully expected to be saying goodbye to her, not going home for supper. I was surely marked for the local Home for Delinquent Boys; they would straighten me out for certain, he’d told me. I remember hoping desperately that she would bring my old teddy; I’d never get to sleep without him. Maybe I’d be allowed to visit home sometimes–if I behaved myself and stayed out of further trouble? Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.
I vividly recall sitting on that hard, shiny wooden seat–eyes swollen with the tears I’d cried, my frame racked by a harsh sobbing I couldn’t stop. Would my mam remember me? Or would I fade from her memory? Would she forget that I liked chips, and chocolate, and a cuddle when it thundered? I sat there frozen, wretched–my teeth chattering uncontrollably. When mam did turn up, she swept one look at me, then glared ferociously at that sergeant, and without a word she took me gently by the hand and led me home. I can honestly say I’ve never in my life been as thankful as at that moment. Ever.
A bit drastic for the size of the crime? Well, as that sergeant told me then, you can’t be soft on first timers, you know. You might only have that one chance to make the lesson stick. Ask any bad ‘un, they’ll tell you that–straight.
I’m eighty-five now, and thinking back–y’know, that brand did stick? On the inside, where nobody but me could see it. And no matter how hard I’ve tried over the years, I could never fully wash it away.
It’s funny what you pick up when you’re six. It’s even funnier what you can lose.
Avis Hickman-Gibb lives in a smal market town in Suffolk, England. She lives with her husband, son and two cats. She is the only female in the house and it makes her feel so special.
A new and interesting story is posted every day.
Subscribe to the RSS Feed! (what is rss)
Don’t miss another story! Subscribe to Every Day Fiction via RSS.
28 Responses to “THE LESSON • by Avis Hickman-Gibb”
Comments
« THE TRANSFORMATION • by Anthony J. Rapino | Home | ANONYMOUS • by Selena Thomason »
September 21st, 2007 at 12:11 am
Great flash, Avis, it really captured the poor kid’s sense of impending doom, the spiralling consequences he dreaded. I liked the idea of the internal brand that nobody else could see - I’m sure many of us carry those around with us; a more subtle and insidious form of what is sometimes called ‘baggage’. Thanks for a great read.
September 21st, 2007 at 3:39 am
Lovely story. Very good on the child’s eye view. Nice to have the variety of a character story rather than a twist-in-the-tale. (Though I like those as well.)
September 21st, 2007 at 3:44 am
The child’s fears are so beautifully drawn here as well as the observation that we carry the marks of our chidhood through life with us. I really enjoyed reading this, Avis.
September 21st, 2007 at 4:06 am
An excellent story! I was so afraid the mother would punish the boy AGAIN, the usual fate for my mother and her siblings.
Loved the author blurb, too!
September 21st, 2007 at 4:39 am
Why thank you chaps - all comments very much appreciated!
September 21st, 2007 at 4:56 am
Excellent work. I can easily imagine the kid sitting there looking sullen and terrified. You never know what events, big or small, will make an impression that shapes a person’s personality for the rest of their life.
September 21st, 2007 at 5:49 am
This really spoke to us. I think everyone gets a “lesson” like this at least once in their lives.
September 21st, 2007 at 6:04 am
Thank you Jordan.
September 21st, 2007 at 6:17 am
Very moving story, Avis - thank you so much.
September 21st, 2007 at 6:50 am
Kate thank you - I am glad to know it struck a chord
September 21st, 2007 at 8:35 am
Nicely done, Avis. A great voice, brilliantly caught.
September 21st, 2007 at 8:40 am
Lessons learned. I guess we’ve all had a few. Thanks, Avis, for a good story.
September 21st, 2007 at 9:17 am
Great story,
I liked it so much I sent it to a few of my friends,
September 21st, 2007 at 11:34 am
I particularly liked the combination of childhood memories and the old man’s perspective. A touching story, which felt very natural and true to life.
September 21st, 2007 at 12:07 pm
Wonderfully written.
September 21st, 2007 at 12:59 pm
Steven thank you so much for your endorsement!
September 21st, 2007 at 12:59 pm
Thank you one and all for your comments. They are wonderful.
September 21st, 2007 at 3:58 pm
Beautiful writing, and a lovely character study that also tells a complete story–one of the best flash pieces I’ve ever read!
September 22nd, 2007 at 8:40 am
Gosh Kate - you take my breath away!! Thank you for your lovely comment - I’ll store it away.
September 23rd, 2007 at 11:32 am
Sorry, but I don’t think is even a story. It’s more like an anecdote.
Kid gets caught stealing something, mom comes and gets her. That’s it.
Glad to see everyone else liked it, but heck they’re very easily pleased!
September 23rd, 2007 at 11:41 am
Sorry you didn’t like it, Susie. Perhaps this story might be more to your liking?
http://www.everydayfiction.com/lolitas-lynch-mob-by-sarah-hilary/
September 24th, 2007 at 1:38 pm
I really liked this story. Some powerful emotions which everyone can relate to…Thank you!
September 25th, 2007 at 4:26 am
I liked the story, but not certain as to “what you can lose” might refer to. This d’enouement turns this flash from a vignette (a la Susie above) to a story. Unfortunately (for me) I missed the resolution.
September 25th, 2007 at 12:57 pm
What was meant here was the old chap’s self respect. A precious thing to lose at any age - but crippling at such a tender age.
September 26th, 2007 at 2:40 am
Thanks for the link.
That one worked much better for me!
September 26th, 2007 at 9:47 am
Thank you Susie.
September 30th, 2007 at 1:35 pm
[...] The Lesson [...]
October 1st, 2007 at 5:29 pm
Ah, thanks for the clarification. And good point.