Our thanks to Andrew Ferguson for his 2014 piece recounting the story of Edward Larkin, who among ot...
4 days ago - 11 Likes
After reading through my tale of woe, I?d forgive you for thinking that I?m one heck of a mixed up kid, carrying all manner of mental scars and psychoses. I sure hope you do, since playing with people?s minds is the only coping mechanism I?ve got. Anyway, here is my story. Enjoy.
My mother was an elderly lady. Good heart. Wholesome morals. In fact, she still remains a conservative woman with traditional values (albeit, she doesn?t get around as much as she used to). You can imagine her anguish when my father came into her life in the most sinister of circumstances. I still don?t know what she did to deserve being raped by that rich, arrogant, selfish prick.
Soon after ?The Incident?, I came into the world kicking and screaming, with a lot of blood and a lot of noise. I had what you might call a troubled childhood. Sans fixed address, my life has been spent moving up and down the eastern coast of Australia. I?m the subject of constant custody battles. If that isn?t enough to send a kid to the loony bin, there?s more.
I spend most of my life in captivity. I?m not talking about being locked in a nice big house. That would be sheer bliss in comparison. I?m talking about a small, stuffy little cabinet, kept under tight security. No freedom. No dignity. If that?s not enough to screw up a kid?s mind, it?s taken a step further. My cage is made of glass. That?s right. I?ve even had my privacy stripped away. Can you imagine how warped one can become under constant scrutiny by total strangers? They stand there, pointing and whispering amongst themselves. I kept telling myself that this was all just some elaborate hoax; that I was the unwitting star of a reality television show or something. I can?t help but dream that it will be over one day and I?ll be able to live a normal life.
In the meantime, I?ve adapted to my environment. From behind the safety of the glass, I discovered that I can be somewhat of a chameleon, with the ability to elicit a gamut of emotions. Amazement. Envy. Joy. Sadness. Lust.
One day there was this guy in here. He looked familiar. I must?ve seen his photo before or something. So there I was, sitting in my transparent cell, and I decided that I?d play the seductive temptress. Giving him the eye and putting on my sexiest siren voice, I called out to him, ?You want me. You know you want me. Come and get me big boy.? Let me tell you, that big boy soon became a very big boy, if you know what I mean.
Another day, I used exactly the same words, only this time my voice was that of a big, burly bouncer type. ?You want me.? His eyes opened wide with surprise. ?You know you want me.? His brow furrowed with confusion. ?Come and get me big boy.? You should have seen the rage in his eyes. It was hilarious. He looked like he wanted to pound me into dust. Let me tell you though, that was one time I was glad to be protected by a few inches of glass. He just stood there for an eternity, with this wild-eyed gaze boring into me as if to say ?Your arse is mine.? Thankfully, I was in solitary confinement and wasn?t sharing a jail cell with this guy; but I digress.
So, to give a bit more insight into my life, I just want to end by telling you about the annual festival. It?s my most prized day of the year, when they let me out of my cell. For whatever reason and however brief, I?m given a reprieve and get to breathe in fresh air to my lungs? content. It?s not perfect though. I?m under heightened security and am paraded in front of thousands of screaming lunatics. The fans of the reality TV show perhaps? It was damn scary the first few years, but I?m getting used to it now, and have learned to relax and enjoy the festival, allowing myself to get swept up in the excitement. I have to admit that I lapse into a recurring daydream at the end of each festival, where I?m the centre of attention. I get hoisted into the air and everyone cheers. For just a moment, once a year, I?m important.
I am the NRL trophy.
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