CHAPTER 3: An Angel and a Witch, and Shocks (i)
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So insistent had the last part of the message been that Hugh was up well before his father to do something about it. He was not a naturally devious or dishonest boy, but he knew that there would be no other way to stop taking his medication other than by some sort of delusion. Donald was convinced the pills were essential to his son’s sanity and would resist all suggestions that they be discontinued. Therefore it was quite essential that he still appear to be taking them.
Particularly since his mother had died, Hugh had become quite handy in the kitchen, and icing was something he was good at. With a bit of experimentation he managed to produce some pills which looked exactly like the originals, but made of icing which he coloured to match perfectly. Keeping one specimen of each of the originals in a tin in a far corner of his sock drawer, just to be on the safe side, he flushed the rest down the toilet. The exact number of pills still supposed to be in their normal containers were then replaced by his fakes.
After that he quickly whipped up a batch of cupcakes to provide an excuse for all the activity.
‘How thoughtful of you!’ his father enthused when he came through to breakfast. ‘Those should provide a great welcome to our guests.’ Hugh almost felt guilty.
The hated meds had more of a hold over his system than he had realised. His ‘imagination’ was nowhere nearly yet in full working order, but he was still aware of many, as if seen through the corner of his eye. With a great deal of effort, he managed to avoid trying to look at them at all. This was really hard, because each new distraction made him want to stare in that direction.
He worked at it so hard during school, by concentrating furiously on the lessons, that he actually earned praise in Maths and History, neither of which he normally excelled in – to say the least. Both the fat ‘Numbo Jumbo’ and scrawny ‘Date Line’ (as they were nicknamed) seemed as astonished as he was.
During the breaks he kept well out of sight of anyone, and when it came to the end of school he took no chances but headed straight for his escape route. This time, however, the Brian gang were waiting at the bus stop, but he kept out of sight and then dashed past them just as the bus was about to pull off.
He was filled with dread when he reached home, and the first words he heard as he let himself in the front door seemed to warrant that feeling completely. It was a girl’s voice, with a slightly whiny and complaining quality and sounding thoroughly bad-tempered, coming to him clearly from the direction of the sitting-room. ‘… want to go to Granny’s now. I need to change and freshen up. I don’t ****-well see why we have to meet this stupid **** retard before that.’
The voice of a woman replied. This was a pleasant one, and he liked it immediately. ‘Please don’t use that language. You know I hate it. And please don’t call him that.’
‘Why **** not? He is one. I mean, just look at that **** picture of him over there. Just like all the others I’ve seen. A complete **** village idiot.’
© Colonialist June 2013 (WordPress)