So it’s feeling you want, is it? Something to move you, something visceral that arouses and wakes you? You want to feel? What a shame. I am the answer to your god forsaken prayers. I can make you feel alright, I can boil you, skin you, shake you.
Mother walked in with the wooden spoon. Her forehead was pleated with anger. Her eyes penetrated under her brow. Dark. Piercing. Her expression was not of disappointment, but anger, hate. I was the object of that hate, the animal that proved too much of a threat to deal with lightly.
Take off your pants.
I pleaded like a pathetic whimpering creature, soggy and simpering, seeking some kind of shelter of grace. I tried to push tears from my eyes but the fear was too strong.
Take off your pants or I’m gonna get your father. Her shoulders were hunched, menacing, long wooden spoon in hand, rigid in her angry grip.
Noo mommy, I don’t want to, I’ll do whatever you ask, whatever you say, I’ll be the best son, I won’t eat any more of your candy, I’m sorry, I’m so stupid, please mommy no.
I knew my attempts to sway her were futile the moment I reminded her of the candy, her precious candy. I could feel it burning a hole right through my gut, right out my ass. I wanted to throw up up, shit it out. I was plagued. But none of these thoughts were able to remove the fear of what was to come.
I closed my eyes and folded my hands together, praying, squeezing them tight as if to give myself some sort of security, some comfort. Purple and pink bolts of color zigzagged across the back of my eyelids. Then the burn set in, the swelling that boiled and crashed like acidic waves. I managed to open one eye and duck before another blow landed on my face. It cracked on the back of my neck. I crawled to the corner of my room. It was life or death. Mommy was having fun.
The sheep came out to play. They’re my favorite.
William Dare 