The grueling, butt-numbing, top-secret training. The kind of training usually reserved for Navy SEAL recruits and clandestine wings of the FBI. That was how I saw it, at least. Thinking of it that way dulled the pain that my body was in almost hourly. I lost count of the number of bruises hidden beneath my clothes. I had so many that I couldn’t count them; they merged into each other in one big, aching mess. My body was the equivalent of David Beckham’s tattooed arms—well, apart from that girls would’ve screamed at me for a very different reason. Obviously. It was difficult keeping them out of Mom’s sight (the bruises, not the girls), especially when I was changing for bed or getting ready for a bath. She had an annoying habit (one of many) of appearing at these times, asking if I wanted bubbles added to the water or whether I needed a drink beside my bed. I mean, GET OUT, MOM! Not that I said that to her, of course; instead, I took more care to lock the bathroom door behind me, jamming anything I could find against it, even spare toilet paper rolls, for that extra, double-quilted security.
What do You think about The Bubble Wrap Boy (2015)?
