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Boys Aren’t
Meant To Cry
Jennifer Wu
Isobelle Carmody Award
For Creative Writing
Highly Commended
He sits alone at the window, ears tuned to the steady rhythm of the
clock ticking on the kitchen wall. His hands tighten around the ring
in his hand, fingers clutching at the metal; grounding him. Blue eyes
dart back to the clock on the wall – the hands move at a dizzying
pace as his eyes follow the movements. He shakes his head, runs a
hand through his hair, and grits his teeth as he struggles to hold back
tears.
After all, boys aren’t meant to cry.
He glares down into the bottom of his cup, studying the image of
his distorted reflection, and he thinks back to a time when he had
really looked that young; when his eyes still held that spark, and his
cheeks had held that rosy glow. And then he remembers his twelfth
birthday –he remembers the celebrations and the constant buzz of
conversation, the heady feeling of exhilaration, and then, he
remembers the day after. His father had taken him shopping for a
birthday gift after the party, his excitement still present as his blue
eyes darted around to each store’s window display, before they
settled on the lacquered varnish of a new bicycle – the bright pink
paint still shining on the frame as the polished metal of the bell
sitting on the handlebars winked at him.
He had walked into the store, smiled brightly at the cashier, and
pointed at the shiny new bicycle sitting in the store’s display. His
father took one look at the bicycle and the expression of confusion
on his face morphed into one of anger. He shook his head quickly,
his eyes hardening as he turned his son away roughly, before calling
the shop assistant gruffly – “Can we get one of those blue bicycles
on that rack over there?” The shop assistant nodded cheerfully,
making small talk with her customer. The boy glanced at the blue
frame of the bicycle. It looked so dull and bland in comparison to
the striking magenta colour that covered the bicycle resting at the
window. The boy’s father smiled coldly and adjusted his tie; “Yes,
the blue one over there should be perfect for my
son
.” The boy
looked on with wide eyes as his father pulled him outside by the ear,
forcing him down by his shoulder to sit on a nearby bench. “Listen
here, boy; no man, and certainly no
son
of mine will be participating
in these feminine activities you’ve taken such a liking to, do you
understand?” He could only nod his head weakly, his mouth dry, as
he forced back the words he could feel scratching their way up his
throat and the hot tears that clawed at his eyelids, threatening to
spill out.
After all, boys aren’t meant to cry.
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