Blaidd
The first sense I remember was warmth. I later learned it came from my mother. The voice inside my head unlocked memories that would eventually make sense. It came to me in childhood—soft whispers at first—and it never led me astray. In time, he became my trusted companion.
While people stared from a distance, or whispered behind my back and made me an outcast, he was there. Soothing me. Reminding me they were beneath me.
Six years old
“I want to play with that,” Rhys said, trying to pull my train from my hands.
He was being rude. Mum told me not to grab. We had to ask nicely and wait. Miss Hampton said the same.
“No,” I said, holding the train above my head.
His face scrunched up before he pushed me. I stumbled and fell on the playground. He laughed, snatching my blue and red train from my fingers. He ran off, moving it through the air like an aeroplane.
I scrambled to my feet, ready to chase him.
No. Wait until lunchtime, the voice whispered.
Why?
Because you can show them all.
Show them what?
He didn’t reply.
I waited.
All that time knowing Rhys had my train. I grew angrier and angrier until my head hurt. At lunchtime, he set it on the table. Other children touched it. It was my favourite—small enough to fit in my pocket.
Now.
I stood and walked to his table.
He saw me coming and grabbed the train in his grubby little hand. My head hurt, and I felt angry—but not like any other time. I climbed onto the table and thrust my hand into his chest as hard as I could.
His chair skidded across the polished floor. His scream made me happy. When his legs came up, he toppled over. There was commotion. Blood.
I picked up my train from the floor before the grown-ups reached him.
I slipped it into my pocket and went to finish my lunch.
They never let me.
I was called into the office and had to wait for my parents to collect me. I told them what happened. But no one saw Rhys push me in the playground.
Now his head was broken.
I shrugged and ran my train over my grey trousers.
?
?
?
Mum brushed my hair from my forehead and kissed me there. I smiled, breathing in her perfume before she stepped back.
“Sleep well, Blaidd,” she whispered, sliding the book onto the shelf and switching off my lamp. “Love you.”
I was about to reply when I saw Dad standing in the doorway. The light in the hallway behind him should have made it harder to see his face, but I saw everything. He still wore his trousers and shirt from work.
We stared at each other.
He was angry.
“Love you, Mum,” I said instead, tugging the covers up.
It didn’t take long for him to start shouting. Well—it wasn’t shouting, but it felt like shouting to my ears.
“How long before you realise there is something wrong with that boy, Alys?”
My mother continued washing the dishes. I could hear the water splash as she scrubbed them.
“Are you listening?” Dad hissed.
“It was an accident. The boy pushed Blaidd first,” she said quietly.
I could still hear her from upstairs. When I focused, I could hear from very far away.
“Just like in nursery,” he scoffed. “Do we need to move again before all of Wales knows I have a freak for a son?”
My mother gasped. A plate slipped into the basin of water. A cup would have made a different sound.
Nursery.
Jessie. The girl who pinched me.
She didn’t like it when I pinched her back.
I tore some of her skin off. It was wet and slimy.
“He is our son. And he is not a freak,” Mum said, turning the tap on to wash her hands.
“The boy has a fractured skull, for God’s sake,” Dad said, setting his bottle down hard on the kitchen counter.
I listened a little longer before turning onto my side. My night glow stickers glowed brightly. I closed my eyes.
At least I didn’t need to go to school tomorrow.
Eight years old
I patted Mum’s hand. I felt bad for her. She’d been crying so much since Dad left, and now we’d moved to England. It wasn’t a house, and it didn’t smell right. I could smell the other people who had lived here before.
“It smells funny here,” I said.
She lifted her head and smiled at me, but her eyes were puffy and red.
“The flat will smell nicer once we’ve cleaned it,” she said, squeezing my hand. “You remember what we talked about for your new school?”
“Yes, Mum. I will try my hardest.”
“I know you will, Blaidd. I love you,” she said, wrapping an arm around me.
Her fingers tightened on my shoulder and she kissed the top of my head.
“Everything will be okay,” she whispered—but I didn’t know if she was telling me or herself.
?
?
?
“Why do you talk funny?” Gavin asked.
“We all talk like this in Wales,” I said with a shrug.
He looked surprised.
“I thought you were from another country. Like her,” he added, nodding.
I looked at the girl he meant.
It was Adeola. She talked funny too—but everyone talked funny in England.
“My dad says there are too many foreigners coming here.”
Foreign meant different. I was different too.
Not like Adeola.
Worse.
Dad said I was a monster.
Ten years old
“How was school?” Mum called from the kitchen when she heard me shut the door.
Before I could answer, she was already in the hallway, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“I only just got in from work and I put your favourite on.”
I could smell the raw meat. My mouth watered.
“School was good,” I lied, letting her hug me.
School was boring. I learned more from library books and the internet.
“Oh, that’s great, Blaidd,” she sighed, her relief obvious. “Go and get changed and relax. Dinner won’t be long.”
I went to my room. Everything was exactly as I’d left it. I slipped my backpack from my shoulder and carried it to my desk. My homework was already done on the bus, but I laid it out anyway for my mother to see. I set my bag beneath the desk.
My daily routine was always the same, with minimal disruption over the weekends. Mum knew not to push me to make friends—she’d learned that the hard way.
I unclipped my tie, folding it around my fingers three times before placing it in my blazer pocket. After changing into joggers and a hoodie, I put my shirt in the laundry basket and hung my clothes neatly in the wardrobe.
I didn’t study for my teachers or for good test marks. I studied everything because I was curious to see how it worked.
As I looked around our new home, bare of furniture and the things we’d had in our old house, I understood that money was everything.
It could take or give—but most of all, it was powerful.
I opened my laptop and it came to life, the rickety fan humming.
Power. The whispered word came again.
The powerful got away with everything. Theft. Murder. All lawful under the right circumstances. History always repeated itself—only now it was wrapped in the guise of civility.
I smiled and sat back in front of the screen.