Best Australian Yarn: Him by Mythri Sarker

Skin, that’s all I can think about. How my skin crawls, when he forces his fingers into my palm, entwining my hand with mine. The way he plants his lips onto my hand, while I tremble in disgust. The thought of him touching me in places… private places. Everyone stares, stuck in place too. It happens everyday. Everyday, for every month, for a whole year. My first year in school, and all I’ve learnt about is skin. Skin, skin, skin. Year one should be different. We’ll be in different classes. Far, far away from… him.

Year 2

Skin, it creeped its way to me. I was wrong. We were separated, but we would be in non - scripture every Wednesday. Every Wednesday, for two years. A whole period of skin, of contact, of… him. I told my teacher, my parents, and my sister, but my age overpowered my voice. Was it the young, soulful eyes? Was it my sweet, coaxing voice? What was it that hid the lipids, salt and water building up in my eyes? I was a puppet, a toy, to dance for him. Skin, skin, skin. An arm wrapped around my neck. How did no one see it? Was I hidden beneath him? Beneath a plethora of skin. But next year will be different, I know it. I’ll be in a different school. Far from here, far from him.

Year 3

Skin, it never found me, but a foot did. It took me by surprise. The foot was cruel, a totalitarian of me. It was different, and it usurped any bit of cheeriness in me, almost as if it was sucked into oblivion. Everyday, I would tremble as he thrusted his shoe into the counter lining of mine, behind me. I would trip, my legs would stutter, all for his amusement. At the end of the day, everyday, I could feel his lips curving into a smirk, behind me. And when we sat down on the floor… a foot. I could feel a foot being shoved into my… I don’t want to talk about it. The teacher, obliviously talking on and on, while I could feel my soul leaving my eyes. It was just for a year right? That foot would never haunt me again. He would never haunt me again.

Year 7

Skin, it was here too. I grimaced as I felt the boy colliding with my bag continuously. I was so close, seconds away from my stop, but it felt like an eternity before we would arrive.“Stop pushing me into girls!”I hid into the corner of the carriage, near the train door, as persistent loud growling emanated from the tracks. My forehead was covered in a thick layer of foul - scented sweat. A sweaty mess of sweat and hair. It was an effort to draw my wheezy, panicked breath, as I clinged firmly onto the railing. I would get to leave, and then this would stop. He would stop. The whistle of the train doors opening was music to my ears, as I rushed instantaneously. I left the train, and I was far, far away from him.It seems so trivial, doesn’t it? That lasted for seconds, but it has been resonating in my mind for hours. Little did I know that those hours would become months, to years. I’ve known skin for all my life, and yet I can’t get over the panicky sensation that rushes through my body. Like a paralyzation of fear. It should be fine. I’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll quickly get over skin, a foot, and a train. Right?

Year 8

Skin reaches the outskirts of my desolate, misanthropic mind. It’s all I ever think about now. Skin, a foot and a train. It has been haunting me for years. Ever since, my mouth has been glued shut, my vocal cords stuck into place, and my eyes bore into the ground overcast by shadows. I curl my fingertips lightly into my hazel bangs, glistening in the ticklish, warm light.Suddenly, I’m startled by the thick black braid that was approaching me. Her lips curve, revealing a set of metal braces, as she gleams brightly. She plops herself into the seat adjacent to mine. I’ve told her so much about the skin, the foot, and the train. But everytime I mention it, she stares into my ebony eyes, perplexed about how to respond. It wasn’t significant, it didn’t matter to anyone, so why should it matter to me? I’ll get over skin, a foot, and a train. I’ll get over him.“Um- can you give me the scissors?”The deep, masculine voice takes me by surprise. It’s him. Wait, no. It’s not him, it’s a him.I sink my eyes into the ground, and manage to mouth out a hoarse ‘sorry’. My fingertips support the end on the blade, the very tip, so tightly in my grasp. I tucked my feet deeper and deeper into the shadows that were overcast by the base of my chair, hidden away. I was overwhelmed by how close he was, and arm’s length. Too close for me. The moment lasted for a nanosecond, as I gave him the scissors, as yet I feel regret flushing over me.Never trust anyone. It’s being sung out in my mind like a mantra. My eyelashes flutter, meeting with a pair of dark brown eyes. Her thick hair is frizzy, in a tight ponytail. I give a soft smile, which I receive in return. I slice the air with my hands, carefully recalling what I was taught, into familiar signs. Hey, can we talk? In return, I receive a smile, as her hands swiftly maneuver. Of course!

Year 9

Skin was all I talked about. Skin, a foot and a train. I told everything. Everything that was nagging my mind. The anxiety, the mistrust, the fear, was poured into words. It took minutes to explain years of my life. I expected the same as anyone else would. ‘That’s fine,’ or a ‘that’s it?’ But she was different. She quickly wrapped her arms around me. I talked about skin, skin is what I got in return. It was a warm embrace, I wanted to cry out years of suffering. I couldn’t. The way I leaned my head onto her shoulder, the thought of her arm around me, her skin, it was warm. The gentle aroma of honeysuckle, emanating from her, stayed with me. Something I could never let go of. Those wistful seconds of her would never fade away.