Boyhood

It began with an almost silent drip drip drip as brittle splinters of sound leaked from the fire extinguisher. I listened, intrigued and moved a little closer, then stopped. As the staccato shards splashed to the floor they seemed to pool into more distinguishable sounds; barely audible at first but slowly melding into fragments of words.

As the flow increased so did the volume, and with that the clarity of the sound. I noticed with alarm that each syllable apeared to have its own distinct voice. I found myself crouching, transfixed as the quiet cacophony lapped around my feet.

Through the hissing white noise I detected here and there a word randomly bobbing up to the surface. The many voices seemed vaguely familiar but it was difficult to tell through the noise .

Then with a jolt I straighened up, I recognised one of the voices, it was from my childhood. With a horror I stood immobile, too captivated to run yet terrified of what appeared to be happening. The rising tide of memories, shouting and admonishing, gained clarity with every long second. The whole of my now distant youth was threatening to drown me.

For all the mêlée of noise I was unable to utter a sound. It seemed unfair that this was becoming my past. Why was it? I remember a different me not this cowed and crushed little boy. Overwhelmed I dropped to my knees with a thud and allowed myself to be engulfed in the confusion, too lost in the compexities to help myself.