Dan Daiquiri

It was a snowy Tuesday- thick, relentless, and unforgiving. Even by East Coast Scotland standards, it was brutal. The wind, dry and sharp, carried whispers from Scandinavia, turning the air into something that cut deeper than cold- it scraped the bone, reminded you you were alive in the most uncomfortable way. The snow didn’t just fall. It settled like an accusation, laying heavy and still, hiding everything that usually helped you feel normal. The roads, the grass, the rules.

Our school was a strange beast- two grand Victorian buildings with towering lancet windows, the kind of architecture that tried to impress God but now only impressed pigeons. They looked like something out of a Dickensian fever dream, stitched together by glass corridors meant to modernize the space but really just gave students a clear view of how disconnected everything was. Out on the far edge of the campus sat another building. Plain. No soul. The sort of place you went to forget you were ever young.

And between them all: the field. A wide-open stage where we played out our teenage dramas. Usually full of noise- laughter, hormones, some kid’s Gameboy speaker fighting against the wind. But today it was muffled. Blanketed. A white canvas, waiting to be ruined.

I was in my second year of high school. Not exactly thriving, not exactly suffering. I’d managed to edge myself into a group of alternative kids- big hair, black nail polish, more sarcasm than confidence. We bonded over games, music, and mutual disdain for anything that required trying too hard. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. I was still intact in the way you are when the world hasn’t yet demanded you barter pieces of yourself to survive.

Tuesdays were my day. I had computing, then geography, with a break in between that felt like breathing space. Computing was my sanctuary. A portal. My brain was wired for code, for pixels, for imaginary worlds where the rules made sense and you could respawn after dying. I wanted to build that kind of world. Somewhere people like me could run to.

Geography was different. I liked it. But my concentration was constantly fractured by Mr. Armstrong’s absurd pelvic lectures- his hips moved more than his mouth. It was hard to focus on tectonic plates when your teacher looked like he was about to start dirty dancing.

As I crossed the glass corridor on the way to the field, the burnt-toast smell of the support base wafted up again. That scent has stayed with me- like memory trying to burn itself onto my senses. Real? Maybe. Imagined? Probably. Prejudice wrapped up in sensory recall? Definitely.

The air outside hit my lungs like punishment. Breathing was a violent act. The ground crunched softly, the snow broken only by dark footprints and yesterday’s chaos. I spotted my crew- shaggy hair, hunched shoulders, permanently cold fingers- huddled in a circle talking San Andreas cheat codes like they were sacred scripture. We were all still kids, still pretending we weren’t, floating in that weird limbo before the damage sets in.

Then it happened.

“Oi, Specky!”

Nathan. That walking fist of a human. Always angry, always performing for an audience. He barrelled toward me, teeth bared in what passed for a grin. I barely had time to blink. He shoved me. Rhys- always the sidekick- was crouched behind me like some Tesco Value prank-show host. My body went up, weightless for half a second, before gravity made sure I felt every inch of my downfall.

I landed hard. Spine-first. Wind knocked out, soul knocked loose. I didn’t fall to the ground. I fell into something deeper- something I’d been circling for a while but hadn’t named yet.

Then the snow came.

Not gently. Not poetic. It was booted and scraped and flung at me with the kind of energy that kids think is harmless until it’s not. It seeped into my clothes, into my skin, into something much more fragile beneath all that. Faces loomed above me, their expressions warped through the blur of tears and snowflakes. I wasn’t just cold. I was nothing. I was a blank page being rewritten by a bunch of boys who’d never have to live with what they’d done.

They kicked snow, but some kicks landed harder- real kicks. One found my cheek. Another my ribs. Pain bloomed quietly, outshone by the humiliation. Rage simmered, but not the kind that fuels revenge. The impotent kind. The kind that folds in on itself, that becomes guilt, shame, loathing.

I didn’t fight back.

I didn’t even flinch.

Instead, I cried. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere ancient. Not just a reaction, but a release. A funeral wail for something you don’t know you’ve lost until it’s already buried.

This wasn’t the first time I’d felt powerless. Billy James stealing my clothes while I was swimming and making me walk home in wet boxers- I still dream about that sometimes. The sting of embarrassment. The feeling of being seen too much, for all the wrong reasons. It felt the same now.

Afterwards, I left. Ran from school like it would save me. I didn’t go to geography. I didn’t speak. I just moved. Hours passed, and I remember this eerie calm washing over me like an tranquilliser. Something in me had shifted.

I decided Daniel had to die.

Daniel-me-was too soft, too slow, too fragile. He wore glasses and had floppy hair and gave people the benefit of the doubt. Dan? Dan would be different. He’d be funny. Sharp. Loud. He’d keep people on their toes. Chameleon-like, he’d change colours before anyone had the chance to point him out.

And that’s what I did.

I crafted Dan like a weapon. Surf-hair, dry wit, emotional detachment- it all became armour. I took my molten humiliation and cooled it into something volcanic. Igneous rock. Solid. Heavy. Immoveable. For a while, it worked. People stopped fucking with me. Some even liked me. I became the bully’s bully. If someone was going to get torn apart, I’d be the one doing it- always with a laugh, always “just a joke.” But I knew. I always knew.

Daniel was buried under all of it, under years of layered sarcasm and distraction. His body rotting quietly beneath the mask I wore.

Sometimes now, in moments of stillness, I can feel him twitching. Like something undead. Like maybe he’s still in there, waiting to be forgiven.

But back then? He was gone.

And in his place: Dan. Not better. Just safer.