Chapter One

Samuel Jacob Bartholomew Dent was born on May 15^th 1981 to parents Jacob and Sylvia, who, Samuel thought clearly had a strange sense of humour; (he was never to find out that they were actually stoned when they chose his name).  His mother often joked that he should have been grateful she couldn’t remember her first choice of Lesley at the time of his naming, something Sam failed to ever find amusing. 

Three years later his sister Joanne Elkie-Brookes was born, the recreational drugs clearly still in full swing as was a love affair, albeit a brief one, with the singer of the same name.

Sam had always been a different child, as his mother called him.  He never had many male friends, he was always with the girls.  He hated football and preferred to spend time making daisy chains at lunch break, or platting Joanne’s Girls World’s hair at weekends.  He got away with this at primary school, it was never an issue but once he went to ‘big school’ it was a different kettle of fish altogether.

The first punch came out of nowhere.  Sam had been sitting with some girl friends eating his Billy Bear sandwich minding his own business.  It was a lovely sunny day and he was happy to be out of lessons, away from the constant name calling, (“oh here he is ‘Bent Dent’”, “Bent Dent, what a fucking poof”; children were so imaginative).  He wasn’t expecting the pain that exploded across his left cheek.  He fell to the ground before he realised what was happening.  Kirk, the school bully had punched him.  He tried to get back up but a kick to the stomach flattened him again.  The kicks continued to the point where Sam couldn’t feel anything anymore.  He lay there helpless to get up, silently praying that someone would help him, someone would rescue him from this.  But no one did.  No one ever did.

When he got home that night, he tried to hide his bruises from his mom but there was no point.  He could hardly walk, his face was bloody and black and his lip was split and the size of a blown up lilo.  “what the bloody hell happened to you” Sylvia exclaimed as she jumped up from her chair, a fag hanging precariously from the side of her mouth, Women’s Weekly in her left hand, an ashtray in her right, Blockbusters blaring from the tele in the corner.  She was wearing a shell suit, they were all the rage at the time, she looked like a lesbian harlequin.  As she jumped up some hot ash fell from her fag onto her shell suit bottoms.  It was lucky she realised else she’s have gone up like a fire in a polyester knickers factory.  She dusted herself off and came running over.  “Don’t fuss mom, its nothing, I fell over”.  “fell over?” she screamed, “don’t talk such shit Samuel Jacob Bartholomew ” (she only used his full name when she was mad with him) “you tell me who did this or else I’ll black your other eye” (mothers logic hey?).

He eventually told her before being allowed to his room to sulk and wallow in his own self pity, he could hear her from downstairs talking to no one “that’s it, I’m going up that fucking school tomorrow and I’ll rip that little shits head off his shoulders and shit in his neck, no one picks on my kids, no one”.  He could hear the sound of her flip flops smacking off the lino floor in the kitchen, Sam and Jo knew when she was angry because the noise grew louder and faster  the more vexed she became, when they were kids it was the sure fire way of telling they were in for a smack.  “who does he think he is, little bastard picking on my little boy, that school needs telling as well, bloody shit hole…”.  He knew she meant well and even loved her for it but her going up the school would only make it worse, not better.  He just hoped his dad would calm her down when he got in from work.

Sylvia did go up the school the next day but she didn’t pulverise Kirk, she listened to Jacob and went to see the head of year instead.  It made no difference.  Mrs Haines said all the right things, said Kirk would be punished, Samuel would be in no more danger, it would never happen again.  It did happen again, and more frequently.  Sam just got better at hiding it.

Sam lay on his bed one night listening to Take That’s latest album on his headphones, Robbie Williams was telling him that ‘Everything Changes’, “fat fucking chance” he whispered to himself.  He looked up at the new life size (if you’re a midget) poster of Mark Owen he had blue tacked to his wall, fresh from that weeks Smash Hits.  He smiled as he heard a knock on the door just as his dad burst in (why knock?).  He seemed calm and collected until he saw the poster.  Sam could see the anger flare up in his eyes.  His father rarely got angry, but when he did he went up like a bottle of pop.  “what the hell is THAT doing on your wall young man?” he seethed, “its no wonder the kids at school call you a poofter if you go about having half naked pictures of men on your walls”, “it’s Mark Owen dad” he retorted taking the ear phones from his ears, “from Take That”.  He tried to smile but his father was clearly having none of it “I don’t care if it’s the queen of fucking Sheba from bastard Shawady Wady”, even his dad looked confused at this statement, “take it down NOW” he said regaining his composure.  Then without giving him chance to he lunged for the poster and ripped it from the wall, tearing Mark’s head clean off.  “I’m having no queers in this house my lad, no way, your granddad would have a cow turn”.  And with that he stormed out.  Samuel wanted to cry but he didn’t have the strength in him so he just put his earphones back in just as Gary sang ‘All I do each night is pray’.  And that’s exactly what Samuel did most nights.

Looking back Sam was always gay, he just didn’t know it.  He had been called gay for years but what was ‘gay’?  He had no idea.  He had it drummed into his head that being gay was wrong.  When it was on Brookside his mother would demand it be turned off, “I’ll have non of that gay shit in my house, good God no, any kid of mine turned out queer they’d be out”.  Then the tele would go blank and nothing more would be said.  He got an almost daily beating from kids at school because they thought he was gay, how could he ever be gay in real life, he’d surely be killed?  When he was seven he was found by his mom rolling around the living room on top of his friend Lee.  The slap of the legs he got that night certainly put him off doing it again in a hurry.  He didn’t see this as wrong at the time though, he simply didn’t understand.

In  1996 Sam fell in love with his geography teacher. 

Mr Smith was a six foot, blonde sex bomb of a man and Sam was besotted by him.  He had a lean muscled body that he got from teaching PE as well as geography and he had thick blonde hair that ran up his long, toned arms.  Sam often sat and daydreamed in his lessons, wondering how far that hair went up, what he would look like naked and what it would be like to have sex with his teacher.  He would masturbate at night thinking of the things he wanted Mr Smith to do to him, where they would do it and how but after he climaxed he would feel sick and cry himself to sleep.  He didn’t want to be gay, he couldn’t be gay.  He found himself skiving his lessons so that he wouldn’t have to see him.  He spent hours in Safeway’s coffee shop drinking enough hot chocolate to refloat the Titanic until it was time to finish school for the day.

It was raining heavy one afternoon and Sam didn’t relish the prospect of playing rugby during PE so he forged a note from his mom and handed it to his gym teacher, Mr Carter.  He was used to receiving notes from Mrs Dent.  One week it was a cold, the next hay fever, he wondered what was next, period pains, an amputation, death?  The truth is he felt sorry for the Dent kid and so allowed him to spend time cleaning the gym instead; poor bastard got enough stick from the kids.

He got the gym cleaned pretty quickly, he’d had enough practise, and in the end boredom got the better of him and he decided to go into the teachers office to see what it was like, maybe there were some merit slips he could pinch and forge, him dad gave him a quid for each one.  He walked from the gym though the changing rooms and into the cold grey corridor of the swimming block.  It was a depressing sight, black worn tiles, grey walls that had most of the paint peeling off, the window, mostly boarded up looked out onto the science block of similar colours, the place really needed a facelift.

He was surprised to find the office door open, he really assumed it would be locked.  He walked in to find Mr Smith stood in the corner of the room.  He was naked apart from a pair of tight white underpants.  Sam’s mouth hung open as he took in the sight.  The long, lean, hairy legs rippling with muscle, the six pack with a glimmer of hair that led up to his tight chest full of course black hairs.  ‘Sam, what are you doing here?’ he asked, he didn’t seem shocked to see him or the least bit embarrassed.  ‘I… erm, I mean… well’.  ‘Never mind’ he replied showing impatience at Sam’s inability to form a word, ‘I wanted to speak to you about your non attendance to my lessons.’  He paused as if expecting Sam to speak, but he didn’t, he couldn’t.  ‘Is it that you don’t like geography?  Are you finding the subject hard?  Is it me you don’t like?’  ‘No sir, it’s because I’m infatuated with you, in fact I think I love you.  And I can’t sit through your lessons because the more time I spend with you the more I want you.  I have dirty thoughts, dreams where you take me and kiss me and make love to me on your desk, neither of us caring who will see us or what they will think because our love is so raw, so pure that nothing can stop it, nothing can separate us and keep us apart.  And that Sir is why I can’t be in your lessons.  I can’t bear to see you’.  Of course he never said this, his mouth never opened.  Instead he turned and ran out the swimming block and into the pouring rain.  The cold wetness smacked him so hard in the face it almost winded him, but he didn’t stop he ran across the field, the dirt beneath his feet turning to mud and making him slip but he managed to keep his balance.  He was almost at the school gate when Kirk came from behind a bush.  ‘Well well well, where you off to in a rush Mr Dent?’, ‘No where, Kirk please leave me alone, I need to get home’.  Kirk walked over, James wanted to run but he didn’t have the energy, stitch had taken over his left side and it was all he could do to take a breath. 

The punch to the stomach made him double over in pain, the last of the air taken from his tired body.  Kirk bent down a whispered, ‘you can keep running you little fucking faggot, but I’ll always catch you, I’ll always be around waiting to give you another pasting.  And I may not do it here, but one day, one day very soon I’m gonna take a knife to that pretty little neck of yours and put you out your misery.  We don’t need your kind around here, you make me sick’.  Kirk spat in Sam’s face and pushed him, he lost his balance and fell backwards into a puddle, the energy and fight had left him, all he could do was sit there in the mud as it soaked through his trousers, the rain flattening the hair around his face.  He looked in the distance as Kirk walked away laughing.  He had never in all his life wanted to die as much as he did then.  He was battered, humiliated, scared and broken.

He sat in bed that night and thought of all the things he could do to stop the bullying.  He needed to not be gay.  He needed to be straight, to like women like the normal boys, the boys who didn’t get beaten every day, the boys who didn’t like Take That, the boys who played football instead of My Little Pony.  Then it dawned on him.  He needed a girlfriend, and he knew the perfect person. 

Sally was his best friend.  She had joined the school just this year having moved from London because her parents had split up and she made it more than obvious that she fancied him.  That was it, he smiled to himself.  I’ll be straight, the bullying will stop, I can be happy again.

The next day he did what any self respecting spotty teenage boy would do and wrote Sally a letter asking her out and she of course accepted.  Word soon got around and people were visibly shocked but seemed to accept the news.  Sam was happy, Sally was ecstatic, his mom was clearly relieved and his dad high fived him, something he hoped to never see again for the rest of his natural life.

Things went well for the next few weeks, the name calling all but ended, people seemed to accept the new lady in Sam’s life and the bullies seemed to find someone new to pick on. 

One after noon James was cleaning the boys changing rooms while the rest of the group played rugby in the rain.  This week he had a knee injury that prevented him from participating in anything physical. 

Sam was happy in his own little world, he loved spending time with Sally, she was his best mate and they had so much in common, his parents seemed less stressed these days and he enjoyed not coming home with a black eye or piss stained trousers or a ripped shirt.  Life was good.  The sound of the gym door opening brought him out of his reverie.  He looked at his watch, only half two, the lads had at least another half hour of play left.  Sam’s heart stopped beating as Kirk walked in.  All the air seemed to leave the room and he couldn’t breathe.  ‘Been waiting to see you Samuel, but we never had any privacy.  Congratulations on getting yourself a bit of skirt’.  Sam was shocked, he seemed almost pleasant, happy for him in a way, ‘Of course’, he continued ‘she’s one ugly cunt, fat, ginger, no tits.  Is that what you like Sammy boy, the no tits business, remind you of a boy does she?’  He moved across the room with such speed it shocked Sam to find him up in his face before he had chance to react and he whispered in Sam’s ear, ‘getting a wank of that minger aint gonna make you any less a faggot Sam, it’s a cover up, a nice little rouse to keep your vile mother happy.’  Sam broke his silence, gaining some fight from somewhere inside him, ‘I’m not gay Kirk, I’m in love with Sally, and don’t you fucking dare call my mom…’  Sam didn’t finish his sentence, Kirk grabbed him by the throat and spun him round.  ‘Don’t swear at me pretty boy, you are a fucking faggot and I’ll show you’.  Sam couldn’t breathe, Kirk was holding his throat too tight, he tried to struggle but his grip seemed to tighten.  He had never felt fear like it in all his life.  Kirk threw him against the wall, his head banging against the cold white tiles of the shower blocks.  He must have lost consciousness for a few seconds because when he came to his trousers and pants were pulled down around his ankles.  He could feel Kirks warm putrid breath on his neck.  ‘I’ll show you your gay Sam, trust me you will enjoy this’.  Sam heard Kirk’s pull down his zip and felt the trousers brush his legs as they fell around his ankles.  Sam pleaded for him to stop but his cries seemed to make it worse.  He felt Kirks erection on his ass cheek and he silently prayed that someone would walk in but he knew they wouldn’t, he could only hope that this would be over quickly.  Kirk clamped his hand over Sam’s mouth as he forced his cock inside him.  The pain was unbearable and it didn’t stop.  He forced himself all the way in, tears streamed down Sam’s face as he silently cried, unable to scream, unable to stop it.  When Kirk had finished he withdrew and turned Sam around, ‘see batty boy, I knew you would like it’.  Sam wanted to smack the arrogant look of his face, he wanted to strangle him till there was no life left in his body, he wanted to slit his throat and laugh as he took his last breath.  Instead he just fell into a heap, crying in the corner of the shower block as Kirk pulled up his trousers and walked away.  ‘Oh, and one thing Sam, a word of this to anyone and I will kill you.  I promise’.  The menacing look in Kirks eyes told Sam that he was serious and he knew there and then that he would never breathe a word of this to anyone.

Sam sat at home that night and cried and cried and cried.  He felt violated, dirty and nasty.  He was in so much pain he could barely sit down.  He knew nothing was going to stop the torture, this would happen for the rest of his life, he had no control over any of it.

He sat on the end of his bed and looked at his wrist, he had drunk half a bottle of vodka and he could hardly think straight, he was pleased he had the house to himself, it would make it all easier.  He took the blade he had taken from his dads razor and taking a deep breathe he forced the blade into his wrist.  It didn’t seem to hurt, in fact he felt a buzz from the sight of his blood rushing from his artery.  He pulled the blade down his arm, he knew this was the way to do it, not across the wrist but down the artery.  He wanted this done properly, he didn’t want to survive.  A few seconds later he dropped the blade to the floor and lay back on his bed.  He could feel the life leaving his body, he thought about his family, he thought about Sally and he smiled.  He would miss them but he couldn’t be here anymore.  He couldn’t go through this torture all his life.  He wanted to die.  He wanted all his problems to go and they were, he would now be at peace.  And that was the last thought that crossed his mind before he drifted into a deep sleep.