Stained

Swinburne students enrolled in the Diversity in Australian Literature unit engaged in discussions about current socio-political issues and how writing can express perspectives and ideas gone long unheard. In Stained, Matthew Parkhill explores the cycle of abuse and how violence begets violence.

Be advised: references to domestic violence and abuse, offensive language.

Can we really wash our hands of our past? (Photo: Marcel Straub)

'Young Fella, where we ride from?'

'Ah, couple hours West...'

There are ten steps to the counter and alerts and sirens are blaring from the computer behind the plastic screen. My voice feels tight, like when you’ve gone hours without talking and you find yourself plucking dry twine for vocal cords.

'Yeah? West where?'

I can’t help but scowl a little. I’ve been riding for days in whatever direction the road takes me. My bike is beat and thirsty, like a broken brumby. Night fell hours ago and I have hours left to ride; his flabby lips and bloated proportions make me sick and I want to be out in the air again.

'Yeah, West. Pump six, thanks.'

His pallid face comes closer to the screen. He's leaning on the counter with his hips, his waist stretching over the countertop, and his hand opens expectantly. His skin is soft, almost translucent. When he smiles, I notice his gums are sunken, teeth yellowed. I twist my lips further into a gnarl; his teeth are rounded down, like he has a mouth full of molars or someone took a file to his canines.

'Hah! West… You’re a real cowboy hey? I own a couple places out West, near Rochester. You ever been? If you ever come by, I’ll be there, whatever you need, I’ll sell it.'

There's not a lick of money up and down him. I pass a twenty through the hole in the screen and let my scowl drop. 

'Rochester's nice.'

His eyes drift off, another alert blaring through the night. A pretty woman jumps out of a tall truck, blue eyes darting towards us, and we both stare for a little while. I haven’t seen her before, but I already feel pity welling up in my chest. 

'Yeah, it's all changing now isn't it, Young Fella? The country’s busy now.'

'They’re just escaping the Big Smoke.'

'She’s a pretty one isn’t she, Young Fella? Don’t see them like that this late.'

He snorts from his pig nose, and I feel my pity wash down into my stomach, brewing disgust. I take my change and turn to the door. Somewhere, on the adjoined freeway, a sportbike screams past, its bark tearing through the night wind.

I remember when I was twelve, I was lucky enough to go to a summer camp on the other side of the state. Five kids from every primary school in the state were randomly offered two weeks away from home. When I got the offer, I was scared; I had never been away from home for more than a couple of days. But the teachers running the camp made us feel welcome and excited for all the sports, practical classes, and new friends we’d make.

We all looked up to Sam, the teacher who looked after our dorm. He had arms bigger than our heads and played in the ones in footy. There were about thirty of us in one dorm, and when we talked to kids from the other dorms we knew we had the coolest teacher. He played guitar, and let us stay up late; when the other teachers weren’t around, he’d rate the women and ask us what we think. If someone had a crush on one of the girls, he’d give them tips on how to chat them up. Called it ‘catching birds.’

My bike is parked a pump over from the truck. I can’t help but stare absently at the ground, head bowed, as I pass the woman. Behind her is the scent of flowers, Iris’ and something sweet like blackcurrant, following her. But there’s that familiar smell. High-octane petroleum, deep and sharp, addictive, I can’t help but heave it in.

Out the truck is her partner. A tall man, dark and brooding, shoulders slumped forward, wearing trackies, a washed-out hoodie, and sunnies. I look up and over the truck as he grips onto the diesel hose, the tips of his fingers stained black with soot, and give him a nod.

Nothing.

He just takes the hose tight in his hand and shoves it hard into his truck, his dark stare on me. He adjusts the hose in and out a little, diesel spilling onto its side, pushing the nozzle in and out. The black soot creeps up his hands, slips beneath his sleeves.

I write him off. I can feel his stare behind me, that dirty diesel smell drifting into the air like a cloud, but I have to be off. Can’t sit still too long. There’s road to chase, asphalt to pound and ride. I look to my bags; the straps on my sleeping roll and blankets have come loose so I adjust them, methodically, feeling the strap bite my skin when I give it that last tug. I take a second to run my hands over the bike, feeling every angle and corner gently. This seat is my home; I know no other now. My hands trace the tank and the swishing liquid inside, ready to burst and explode and make fire.

I look back to the truck. He’s still pumping diesel, and some of that spilled stuff has become a cloud around him. I can’t stop my mind wandering, looking to the lady at the till inside, if that black burning dirt sticks to his skin when he holds her; his chemical-bitten hands running along her waist, like sandpaper, leaving marks where she’s softest, in places others can’t see.

I remember there was one kid who would pick on me nearly every day of camp. He grew up on a farm, whereas I grew up somewhere softer. I liked to make friends, daydream and play pretend, always smiling, talking to girls and boys. I didn’t get crushes yet, girls were just friends. He called me a faggot. Told me I needed to grow up. But we were only twelve?

This kid was in my dorm. When he wasn’t picking on me, he’d pick on this other kid who had a ‘learning disability’. He’d push him, tug at his clothes, nip at his ears and gnash his teeth. 

I was bigger than him though. I was just soft; that’s what Sam told me. Sam looked down at me and said I needed to grow up. So, Sam sent the dorm outside for an activity, but made the two of us stay behind. He told the other teachers we were just making up, and when he came back inside, he told me to ‘give it back to him’. 

In my helmet, I become someone else. The layers, the tinted visor make me new. I used to watch my dad put on his gear, adjusting every strap and zipping up every zip. When he hugged me, it was cold and distant, like I was hugging someone completely different.

I watch the lady out of the corner of my eye walk back up to the truck. Her hands are full with pies, chips and small neck pillows. Her partner has stopped pumping; his head is completely engulfed in smoke and fumes, the smell sickening, and her voice, tiny and pathetic, struggles to pierce the cloud.

'…I thought we’d get something for the road, you were complaining about your neck?'

My gloves are tight but I can feel everything through them. I feel in complete control, protected, powerful. I wait for nothing in particular except to listen.

'…but why not?'

I hear something meaty whack something soft and I turn like lightning, seeing her just as she's about to hit the ground. Her face is red and there’s tears in her eyes but she won’t look up, just down at his feet. I can’t stop staring. I can hear my breath become heavier in my helmet when her face begins to swell a little. The man is saying something, but it just sounds like a chorus of pistons, like an engine lit in his chest.

Her eyes lock with mine, but she wouldn’t know it. She just sees a black, leather strapped man watching her pathetically pick her shit up off the floor. Eventually, her partner turns, opening the car door.

But I’ve already swung off my bike. I can feel the leather around me tightening, stitching itself into my skin. My boots are pulling me towards them. Under my helmet, I’m gnashing my teeth, licking my canines, loaded springs in my arms ready to burst.

I remember he writhed and squirmed like small game in a predator's mouth. He flung his arms in every direction, until I threw my doona over him and sat on top of where his chest would be. My mum had stitched things into my doona cover: flowers, trucks, a motorbike.

For a while I just looked at the cover and thought about my mum, till I looked at Sam and saw he thought I was pathetic. Then I swung down into the heaving doona, and again, and again.

At first I could make out the shape of his face against my fists, feeling him breathe and cry underneath me, feel the cover get wet from his snot and spit. Then he got quieter the more I punched. His arms were pinned beneath my legs; I started to just wail down, remembering tackling with my dad, watching him train on the boxing bag at home, watching him swing at my mum.

It felt just like that bag. Soft, then hard in the middle. I wonder if dad thought that too?

Then Sam gave me a pat on the shoulder, and I went outside. I wasn’t picked on from then on.

I don’t even feel a thing. Only that my arms are tired and my knuckles bleed beneath my gloves.

I swing right, then jab left. He falls, grabbing onto the car door for balance before I drive my boot into his chest. His head hits the concrete hard, and I start wailing into him, sitting on his chest while I turn his face to putty. 

I can make out all his features now: stubby nose, short, brown hair, low cheekbones; he had blue eyes underneath his sunnies, which broke under my boot. With every punch, his face becomes a little more recognisable. Every blotch of blood from his broken teeth, broken nose paints a familiar picture. A truth so uncomfortable you harbor it in your gut, rising with your spew till you can do nothing but expel it.

I want to say something like, you shouldn’t have hit her, but it's past that now. Between breaths I catch myself and stop, heaving, and slowly get up off his now cold body. Behind the window of the servo, two greedy beady eyes watch ravenously from misted glass, hot from heavy breaths. I turn to the lady still sprawled on the ground and see she’s terrified of me. Her phone is already dialing 000, and she kicks herself away from me when I offer my hand.

I turn back to her partner. He isn’t moving. His skin is clear, splattered with blood but clear. 

He looks just like me.

I grab his wallet from his jean pocket, rifle through the notes, and slip them into my jacket. I take his licence for keepsake. We share a name, so why not?

I have road to burn, asphalt to pound. Somewhere, hours from here, I’ll have to pull up for petrol again.