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It's like one of them panda boxes have opened, and he can't get the bloody panda back inside it.
It had shaken him to the bone, the way Roy had named his trauma, all simple and straightforward-like. The makeshift walls holding back the emotions and snatches of memories crumbled into dust, and they’re there now, constantly, fogging up everything in his brain until all he can think about is how wrongdirtydisgusting he feels.
He’d pushed this shit down so deep that he’d barely realised it was even there. It reared its head, once in a while, like when that lady at the gala kept telling him what she wanted to do with him. He was always able to push it down again though, always, always, ‘cause he’s not fucking soft.
But it's been weeks since Amsterdam, and he can't stop thinking about it, how he's traumatised, how this is a part of him, forever, and he can't even remember it. He feels disgusted and furious and hopeless in turn and sometimes all at once, until he feels like he's going to vibrate out of his fucking skin, going to get sucked into that gaping hole in his flaccid fucking soul, going to shatter into pieces so small no one would know he'd ever even been there.
He can’t fucking remember it. He tries to remember, really tries, but the most he can pry out of that dusty nook in his brain is how she'd moaned a few times, and Jamie always thought that meant she’d loved it. He knows she can’t possibly remember a night from ten years ago either, but that’s ‘cause for her it was just a regular day at work. Jamie’s supposed to remember his first time.
Jamie remembers the before - how he had been so confused ‘cause he'd thought they were going to see cars or something, red-light district, how the woman had smelled of cigarettes and looked at him in a way that were nice but practiced, and how he knew that if he didn't do it his dad would know. And he remembers the after, hands shaking as he walked out of the room, how his dad had roared with laughter that reeked of beer and slapped his back and said that he were a real man now. He remembers how they didn’t do anything else in Amsterdam, how his dad had said he’d blown all his cash on Jamie, so he should be fucking happy about it and stop nagging him like a fucking woman about maybe possibly doing a little boat tour through the canals if they had time and let his old man drink and smoke in peace.
can't remember can't remember can't remember
Slowly, in bits and pieces, he realises that his mum is running her fingers through his hair, murmuring words he can't make out, rubbing his arm in a way that makes him feel like it's the only thing keeping him from floating away into space.
He wants more than anything to share with his mum. Part of him knows it’s just sex - and sex is something okay to talk about, always has been. She’d helped him find the word for his soul-impotence, for fuck’s sake. She's never been weird about it the way he knows some parents are.
She’d not had to sit him down for a proper sex talk, ‘cause it’d been talked about all normal-like, whenever it came up over the years. Once she walked in on him and his girl and just told him to lock the door next time. And she’d barely batted an eye when Jamie came out to her, quiet and unsure, just wrapped him up in a massive hug and teased him gently about the posters on his wall.
So this is just another conversation, innit? But he knows inside that it’s not. Wouldn't know how to explain it if you asked - Jamie's had plenty of sex since then, but thinking about that particular time just feels deeply wrong, and dirty, and bad, and he doesn’t know why. He wants to tell her, he does, but he feels filthy, so much that he can't even eat most of the time for how nauseous he is. The thought that maybe she’d be disgusted that he was even touching her makes him feel like he might die.
He feels so heavy with it all, like it’s settled into the marrow of his bones. Even if she’s not disgusted, Jamie is going to break his mother’s heart, and weigh her down with it too, and that ain't fair for her. She’s gone through enough, and Jamie doesn’t want to pile decade-old trauma onto her plate. But he can't. He can't anymore. He’s tired but he can't sleep and it's swallowing him and he can't anymore.
“Mummy?”
“Yeah, baby?” Her voice is so soft, so familiar.
“I've got…I've got somethin’ stuck in me head.”
Georgie hums and doesn't say anything, just keeps stroking his hair.
“It's bad, Mum. It's really bad, I think…I don't really know, and I'm afraid if I say it, you'll think I'm bad.”
“Jamie,” she says, voice still soft, but with sureness behind it. “I'll never think you're bad. You're my Jamie boy, and sometimes we might do bad things, but you're a good lad, with a good heart. And nothing’s going to change me mind.” She squeezes his shoulder. “Out with it, love.”
Jamie nods a little, chewing harder on the string of his jumper. He wrings his hands, like he can knead the bad into something better. “You 'member when dad took me to Amsterdam when I were fourteen?”
“Of course.”
“We went to that match, yeah? I don't even remember it no more. No clue who played or the score or nothin’. But then, a-after…”
He can't figure out any way to say it other than how he'd said it to Roy, and he's replayed that conversation hundreds of times since Amsterdam.
“After the game, he…he took me to the red-light district for me real present. He, uh...he took me to lose me virginity, to those ladies behind the windows.”
His mum has gone very still and Jamie squeezes his eyes shut. This is it. He's so disgusting his mum doesn't even want to touch him anymore. He starts to sit up, starts to say sorry, nevermind, it was a joke, something.
But she wraps her arms around him, squeezing tighter than he thinks she's ever squeezed before. “Jamie,” she says, in a voice that's as broken as Jamie feels.
Jamie wraps his arms around his mum as tight as he can and holds on as tears scorch his eyes and his heart shrivels into a little raisin. She’s trying to cry as quietly as she can and Jamie hates how he's made her tears of pride turn to ones of sadness.
“Jamie, baby. My baby boy.”
“Don't cry, Mummy. Please don't cry,” he whispers, but he's crying too, tears gluing his cheek to her shoulder.
Jamie doesn't know how long they sit there, but then eventually he realises the tears have run dry. He sits up a little, and his mum is looking at him, eyes red and teary but as gentle as ever, expression as loving as ever.
“Never forget the power of a good cry,” she says, watery, and she laughs a little, and Jamie does too, chest expanding with relief. Jamie’d not realised just how terrified he'd been of how she’d react. He feels dumb now. ‘Course it wouldn't change anything.
“Sorry,” he gestures to the mess of snot and tears on her shoulder.
“Oh Jamie. Don't be silly. You've done worse. Puked and pooped and everythin’, when you were a sexy little baby.”
Jamie smiles a little, but he looks down at his hands, fidgety.
“Come here,” she says, patting her chest, and Jamie cuddles up to her again. She doesn't say anything for a while, and Jamie's glad, because he really doesn't think he's got any words left for today. He just closes his eyes and lets himself remember how good it always is to hug his mum.
“Jamie, baby, I’m so, so sorry that happened. I’m so sorry.” Her voice catches. “I should’ve…I should’ve done…done somethin’…should’ve known he’d try and pull somethin’ like that.”
Jamie shakes his head. “You couldn’ve known, Mummy. It were me who should've done somethin’, should’ve said I’d not wanted to louder, should’ve just not…not done it, but I did it. It's me own fault. I did it to meself.”
His mum pulls in a sharp breath. “Jamie, love,” she says, smoothing his hair off his face and waiting for him to look up at her. Her face is serious. “Jamie, you listen here. None of this were your fault. None of it. You were just a lad, you should never ‘ave been put in that position in the first place. It ain’t no one’s fault but your father’s.” She takes a shaky breath, and squeezes Jamie’s arm. “It weren’t your fault. You’ve not done anything wrong. You were a child, baby, and it were our job to protect you, both your father and me, but he didn’t. That bastard chose to do the opposite. No part of it were your fault. I…I wish I could’ve done something, Jamie, I’m so sorry.”
Jamie’s shaking his head. “No, it ain’t your fault either.” She squeezes his shoulder again. Jamie lets out a flat little laugh. “But Mum…it really were me fault though, weren't it? It's not like…it's not like I were raped or nothing, I were the one…I were the one who…so it don't make sense to be traumatised ‘bout it, ‘cause it weren't like anyone did anythin’ to me.”
Georgie lets out a long, slow breath. “Jamie, baby. You know there's lots of different kinds of sex.” Jamie nods. “So, there’s not just one way to experience trauma from sex either. Just like there’s lots of ways for someone to say no, to not give consent, you remember -”
“Yeah. But I weren’t drunk or high or nothing. And it weren’t like…like Dad were there with me forcing me.” He’s distantly aware of his breathing going faster, his hands knotting together. “I did it, Mum. And I don’t remember it. I don’t…I don’t feel right.”
“You might’ve been sober, baby, but d’you know what coercion means?”
Jamie scrunches his nose. “Like when you change quid to euros?”
She smiles. “Not conversion. Coercion. Being coerced.”
“Oh, like when you’re pressured to do somethin’.”
“Exactly. That were coercion, what your father did, ‘cause you were worried what might happen if you didn't listen. Your father…any time that ballsack makes you feel like you’ve got to do somethin’ you don’t wanna do - even if it’s somethin’ that seems small, like gettin’ him Wembley tickets so he’ll stop yellin’ at you over the phone - that’s him coercing you.”
Jamie’s silent as he takes this in. She doesn't say anything either, just keeps running her fingers through his hair. “You know what the age of consent is?” she asks eventually.
“Mum, it’s not like I were a lad and she were a paedophile!”
“I know. I know. But you were still young, baby. Those laws are in place to help protect people like you. ‘Cause bein’ too young? That's another situation when you can't give consent.”
Jamie chews on his lip. “I feel like…Sorry. I know you’re tryin’ to help me, Mum. But it still feels like I did somethin’ wrong.”
She hums quietly. “Don’t be sorry, baby. You ain’t gonna figure it out all in one night. Are you still seeing that nice Dr Sharon?”
Jamie's silent for a moment. “No. Stopped.”
“Why’s that?” And god, he loves his mum. No hint of judgment, only curiosity behind the question.
“Dunno. Got too hard, I guess.”
“Y’know, you've done a lot of hard things, Jamie.”
Jamie chews on his lip. “I don't want her to talk about it like it's this big thing,” he blurts out, sitting up and tangling his hands in his jumper. “Like…like I'm some sort of soft helpless baby, or like…like it ruined me life, ‘cause it didn't.” His voice sounds defensive and pathetic to his own ears. “I don't want this to be who I am, Mummy. D’you get me?”
“Oh, Jamie.” She sounds like she’s about to cry again, and Jamie turns to look at her. She’s got tears in her eyes, but she’s still smiling at him. “Yeah, baby, I get you.”
Jamie sighs, lets go of the tension coiled up in his muscles.
“How d’you feel after telling me?” she asks.
He shrugs. “I dunno. The same. Maybe a little better,” he admits.
“Did I make you feel like that?”
“Nah,” Jamie says quietly. “But you're me mum. You…know how to do things like that.”
She chuckles. “Listen, love. It's her job to know how to do things like that, too. Got a fancy degree ‘n everything, don't she?”
Jamie nods reluctantly.
“She sounds smart as hell, from what you've told me. She'll know how to go about this too, yeah? And if for some reason it ain't workin’ out, there's loads of other therapists out there.” She reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. “Think about it, at least?”
“Kay, Mummy.”
“Thanks for sharing with me, Jamie. God, I’m so proud of you. Of who you are and who you’re becomin’.” Her voice cracks at the end. She wipes her eyes with her wrist. “Come here, my sexy little baby. Can’t help you like Dr Sharon can, but she can’t hug you like I can.”
Jamie slides back down into her warm embrace. She presses a kiss to the top of his head, and Jamie burrows harder against her.
“‘M glad I got to go with you again, Mummy.”
“Me too, love.” She pauses, and then chuckles a little. “Jesus, d’you remember those stroopwafels? Were dead good, weren't they?”
Jamie smiles into her belly. “Y’think Simon can make some?”