Adults say counting calms the brain. Fair enough. Ten. Nine. Eight. Still fucked. Monday corridor, top button gone Teacher grips hard, four moons in the skin “Hands to yourself.” Yeah, start with him Principal switches to professional charm Calls Mum in, manufactures calm Doctor ticks boxes: “Everything good?” Mum says, “Course,” like frightened mums would Dad watches dust on the toe of his shoe Jaw set hard like the floor might talk too Four adult voices, practised and plain One little bloke doing sums in his brain Everybody’s worried till worry gets near somebody important who shouldn’t be here Then concern turns conditional, careful and soft Every lesson gets lost when the grown-up gets caught Ten means sit Nine means wait Eight means grin Seven, behave Six, say nothing Five, play dumb Four grown voices One little one Sunday dinner, cutlery straight Uncle says manners while scraping his plate Leans in close with “Show some respect” Funny how respect never travels direct Grandma cuts cake, knife taps china Every laugh comes back half a note higher Family photo, shoulders held stiff Flash goes white and the facts go missing Someone says, “That kid’s always been strange” Like they hadn’t trained every trigger in his brain “Nothing happened.” “He imagined it.” “He’s always difficult.” “Don’t encourage it.” Same four lines with the wording adjusted Passed down clean till the lie looks trusted That’s how filth gets dressed for church No. Scrap that. That’s how filth gets dressed for lunch passes the gravy and calls it love COUNTING BACKWARDS EVERY LESSON THEY TAUGHT EVERY RULE CHANGES WHEN THE GROWN-UP GETS CAUGHT COUNTING BACKWARDS NOW THE ALIBIS CRACK GOOD KIDS REMEMBER BAD GROWN-UPS HATE THAT COUNTING BACKWARDS THREE, TWO, ONE THEY CALLED HIM TROUBLE HE KNOWS WHAT THEY’VE DONE They said memory plays tricks. So does family. Memory just admits it. WHO TAUGHT THE KID? EVERYBODY DID WHO CHANGED THE RULES? WHOEVER HID WHO KEPT SCORE? THE LITTLE ONE DID COUNT EVERY PERSON WHO SAW AND LEFT Need more fingers. Ten little warnings kept under the tongue Nine neat lies for the damage they’d done Eight fake laughs at a family event Seven grown people getting eloquent Six missed calls that nobody returned Five explanations, professionally blurred Four pressed collars protecting a name Three adult statements suspiciously same Two hands lingering far too long One kid learning that right means wrong Zero good answers, run it again Count every bastard who knew back then Crayons in pockets and gravel in socks Names, dates, number plates, knocks Which car idles down near the drive Which aunt checks every lock five times Dad says “fine,” but his knuckles bleach Mum scrubs the bench to the raw underneath One seat empty. Don’t ask who it is Family goes forensic when the witness is six Smile for the picture, stand up straight Keep all the ugly shit outside the gate Perfect little family, nobody blink Quick, look normal. What would people think? There it is: the national sport Hide what happened, discredit the source Call the kid troubled, call the kid sick Call him dramatic, call him a prick Call him anything except what he was: Open fucking eyes in a house full of cunts Zero for waiting on someone to care Zero for every fucker who knew and stayed there Zero ain’t finished. Zero’s the start. Zero is every old name getting marked. No euphemistic, revisionist shit The kid grew up. He remembers it. COUNTING BACKWARDS FUCK EVERY LESSON THEY TAUGHT EVERY RULE CHANGES WHEN THE GROWN-UP GETS CAUGHT COUNTING BACKWARDS LET THE ALIBIS CRACK GOOD KIDS GROW OLDER BAD GROWN-UPS HATE THAT COUNTING BACKWARDS THREE, TWO, ONE THEY CALLED HIM BROKEN HE REMEMBERED EVERYONE TEN, SIT STILL NINE, DON’T TELL EIGHT, MUM’S SCARED SEVEN, DAD’S PALE SIX, ONE WITNESS FIVE, ALL KNEW FOUR, LOOKED AWAY THREE, BACKED THEM TOO TWO, GREW UP ONE, NOW RUN ZERO MEANS NONE FORGIVEN Adults say numbers never lie. Neither did the kid. That was the problem.
