Читать книгу The Styx - Patricia Holland - Страница 17

They call us the halo children. For some cruel parody of life, we have a sort of ethereal beauty. You can see the veins under our skin even though it feels all smooth. We’re like that while we’re young—before puberty—even though most of us don’t live that long. But if we do, when our hormones go ultra-haywire, we mostly seem to grow fat and ugly. Because of neglect, I reckon. Disabled kids rarely get braces. No one worries too much about diet and exercise for us. We don’t get bought Proactiv face wash, or cute little eyeshadow packs for Christmas. We don’t get put on hormones for our skin. We don’t have boys chasing us. Well actually sometimes we do, but only the real warpos, not in the will-you-go-out-with me way.

I didn’t get fat. After my mother left, I didn’t get enough food to get fat. If I had usable arms I could have raided the freezer for out-of-date frozen fish fingers or frozen peas. But I’d need usable legs too. If I had hands that could hold things, I could have fed myself. If I had a voice, I could have demanded food. But my hunger was no one’s main priority. Of course I got fed, but I couldn’t eat quickly. Everyone thinks eating slowly equates to not being hungry. So I suppose I stayed in the ethereal stage, a bit shrivelled ethereal.

At home, I was trapped in a second-rate wheelchair—when I was lucky. Other times I was left in my cot soaking in excrement with stale urine blistering my skin. Shame I was blessed with exceptional olfactory senses. This is the life many of us lead, hidden from outside scrutiny. Even more so for me, hidden in out-in-the-sticks-Australia, a place of romantic wonder under the golden sun.