Virus

Markus Spiske

When were you infected?

I was twelve. She had invited me to her evening birthday party. Her name was Cindy Hepton-Jones. We were best of friends, just a girl and a boy with all the innocence of childhood. Her with her curly red hair and freckles and me with my unkempt afro. We were quite a pair. We were happy kids, growing up in an idyllic middle-class suburban existence. I was a cheeky-go-lucky delinquent.

One sentence carried the Virus. “Go away! You’re not one of us”. I realised that colour mattered. I had been infected. I can’t remember his name, but I remember his face and his voice. He was her visiting cousin from South Africa. He wasn’t much older than us. I spent the rest of the party in the shadows and alone. Dad knew I had been infected when he picked me up. There was nothing he could do, although he was a doctor and a very good one, by all accounts. But, even he couldn’t remove it. We never talked about it. He had been infected, too. His eyes had said it all.

Cindy knew something had gone wrong, that night. I wasn’t my usual self, the next day. She said she had looked all over for me, but couldn’t find me. I could only tell her “sticks and stones”. It was my band aid. I didn’t want to infect her. Someone would, but not me. After that, I pretended to not have the Virus, for her sake.

We parted ways after the last day of school. Se was going back to England, family relocation. There wasn’t going to be another summer of endless happiness. I remember the feeling of utter despair when I watched the Hawker Siddley aeroplane take her away. I watched it until it was a speck in the sunset. The next day, I destroyed our secret place. I guess that is why childhood friends stay childhood friends. Memories of innocence for when we get old and melancholy.

That was nearly five decades ago. For a long time, I abhorred teams, cliques, gangs and groups. I was never one of anything. I was one of me. The Virus was my prisoner, sentenced to life, imprisoned in my soul, with no chance of parole. It has tried everything to escape, but it couldn’t get past my thoughts and into my voice.

I am looking at our class photo. It was sent to me by Cindy’s daughter. It arrived in the post, yesterday, with a covering letter and her diary. It was the unofficial class photo, the practice one, the one before the official serious one. She was smiling at me and I was grinning at her as if we were sharing a secret. Such innocence. That was before the Virus.

I can still remember her infectious laughter, clear and innocent. I heard it a few minutes ago when I read her letter for the umpteenth time. I will read her diary after I have posted this blog. The diary book was my last birthday present to her.

So, when were you infected? Do you know if you’re infected? Or are you in denial? Well, dear Reader, you were infected the day you saw people as being different to yourself, the day you started labelling them, the day you introduced “us” and “them” in your vocabulary.

Now, you know about the Virus, dear Reader.

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Written by

Writing for the love of it. Francis Thaddeus Ray is a pseudonym. Born with itchy feet & too much curiosity. Traveled the world, from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe.

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