Page 15 of Everything That Kills Me
After a bruising fight with his martial arts instructor, Jack was aching and when he failed to score in four bouts of fencing, Thomas took him aside.
“You’re not trying.”
“I can’t win. Why bother? I’ll never be as good as them.”
“No, you won’t. That’s not the point of them teaching you to fight and fence.”
Jack looked up. “Then what is the point?”
“You learn, you improve. You keep getting to your feet and you don’t give up. There will always be someone who can run faster, fight better, shoot more accurately, know more about the things you’re learning. Those who teach you are experts in their field, but you can already play chess better than the man who teaches you to fence, you’ll be able to run faster than the man who teaches you to shoot, blend in better than the woman who shows you how to play cards.”
Jack thought about it.
“Do you see now?” Thomas asked.
“They know a lot about their skill. I know about a lot of skills.”
Thomas nodded.
Once Jack understood he wasn’t expected to win everything, he worked harder, listened more carefully. Every time he lost or failed, he tried harder the next time. There wasa lot to learn. But as Thomas reassured him, he had years to learn it.
Years of hard lessons.
When he climbed without ropes and fell, Thomas caught him.
“Clip on if you can. I won’t always be here.”
When he asked if he’d run far enough, or for long enough, Thomas shrugged. “How long or how far doesn’t matter. You run for however long you need to run.”
When he finally thoroughly defeated his fencing instructor, Thomas gave him a rare smile.
Jack was twelve years old when Thomas left him for longer than a few hours for the first time. Five days with no one checking on him. Thomas often went away but someone had always taken care of Jack, usually one of the trainers. This time, he was expected to look after himself.
He looked for cameras and found one in the kitchen. Jack grinned into it, then covered it. But he behaved. He stayed safe and did the work he’d been left to do. And when Thomas came back, battered and bruised, his shoulder gouged by a bullet, Jack was glad he was alive.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t come back?” Thomas asked.
“Moved the money to where you told me to. Called the number you gave me and waited.”
“Good boy.”
Jack hadn’t realised it wasn’t Alice’s birthday party until he gave her a bunch of flowers—Thomas’s suggestion—and she’d gasped, then looked guilty.
“Thank you, but it’s not my birthday. It’s my brother’s. Well, my stepbrother’s.”
She was already slightly drunk and wobbling, which was worrying.
“Where are your mum and dad?”
“Away until tomorrow!” She looked gleeful.
Jack wondered if they even knew there was a party going on in their house. He regretted the flowers now, but he hadn’t felt he could arrive empty handed and Thomas had refused to let him take alcohol.
Alice grabbed Jack’s hand, clamped her fingers tightly around his, and pulled him to the kitchen. “We made punch but help yourself to whatever you like.”
“Thanks.”
Jack chose a Corona. He had to prise himself free of Alice in order to open the bottle, then he kept both hands on it. He didn’t particularly want the drink, but he did want something he’d opened himself. Thomas had long since stressed the importance of that.If in doubt, don’t drink anything.The kitchen was a mess. The floor was crunchy with crisps and peanuts, and there were half-full and empty glasses on every surface, along with bottles and cans.
