My name is Jack. I will be 6 next month. I am standing alone, on the pavement. Right now I am screaming at the top of my lungs. The person I call “mum” is in a car some way down the road. Mum hasn’t seen me. Rupert has seen me. He is waving out of the rear window. He doesn’t know this isn’t a game. I call him Roo.
I’m screaming because I’m here alone. I want mum to know that it hurts. That’s the main reason I scream. If I have to hurt I want it to be seen, but no one sees. Suffering alone makes the suffering worse. My chest hammers like an anvil. My stomach is heavy. I am warm everywhere, especially around my eyes.
Trees bend like slinky toys in the wind. The car gets smaller and smaller. Eventually it will be a small dot, sharp enough to make a second hole through my soul. I scream and it lets some of the hurt out. It lets some spirit out too. Some safety and trust.
The spirit drains out. I am weaker, but lighter. I feel less afraid. I feel less. The screaming has stopped. Air fills my lungs like a balloon, so light I might lift off. I realise my arms are raised. I lower them. They seem hollow. My body is empty inside. The spirit has come right out. Everything is quivering. My skull is vibrating very slightly.
“This way Jack.” A voice behind me. They point a hand away from me. “This way.” My collar is damp, no, soaking wet, with tears. Steeped in the hurt and lost spirit. “This way.” I follow.