Page 92 of Pride
before he’d even learned to walk.”
The image of a little boy appeared on the wall behind him, a boy sitting in a crib with a dirty face and filthy clothes, crying, but it was clear no one was going to come. And then he went on proclaiming to the crowd,
“Arran was a silent boy.
But his demons they roared loud.
And the voices in his head,
told him you shouldn’t be here; you should be dead.”
The warehouse went pitch black, then a single spotlight lit him up again, in his blue mask and boiler suit. The image of a teenage boy appeared on the wall behind him in place of the child. The teen was leaning against a wall, with his hood down, smoking a cigarette. And smoke billowed into the crowd alongside the faint chatter of voices from the speakers cursing and swearing, sounding like bullies taunting their victim. And he continued his performance.
“As life went on and he got older,
the punches and kicks became much bolder.
But now there’s another factor of his misery they own
Fists hurt,
but words?
They can cut
to
the
bone.”
The room was bathed in red light as the effect of red water trickling down the walls behind him suddenly appeared, making it look like blood pouring free. Then the image of the teen wasreplaced by one of an arm, covered in cuts and scars. A stark image that gave me a visceral reaction because that was a young man’s arm, just a boy. And with his booming voice, he asked,
“Does it make you proud to drag others down?
Smiling for the world while you hide your frown.
Your hate.
Your anger.
Your vicious bile.
How far would you go?
Would you walk a mile?
To ensure he hears every vulgar word.
Because you want to destroy him.
That’s what I’ve heard.”
He paused for a moment, and then went on.
“Words can hurt.
They can cut so deep.
