In God’s Name:
a Short Story
by Donna Anastasi
cover art by Tobias Allen
Copyright Donna Anastasi 2013
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This story is dedicated to –
the real “Hanna” with the prayer that you
unfold your wings
and fly
In God’s Name: a Short Story
Crack.
F-You
Her mind filled with the color red. Rage was always her first emotion as she lay exposed and the first blow of the wooden paddle struck her bare bottom. Many blows would follow and in the end she would cling to her father, begging for his forgiveness. Revulsion filled her, forever, for whatever indiscretion had brought about the punishment, no matter how wonderful, tempting, or right it had seemed at the time when it occurred.
Afterward she would be subdued and very good for a very long time. And a new behavior was added to her “off-limits” list. After so many years of these lessons, she could no longer hear a curse word, contemplate telling a lie or talking back, or see a young teen wearing bright red lipstick, nail polish, booty shorts, or showing a little curvature of her budding breasts without feeling nervous and slightly nauseous.
While the revulsion stuck, repentance was a fleeting thing. The initial feeling of remorse dissipated with the same speed and intensity as the pain of her bruised backside. As the sting of paddling faded, the repentance ebbed, and something else crept in its place. Resentment. She kept this resentment to herself, along with most of her other thoughts, ideas, questions, and feelings.
Hanna was not a girl who smiled often. Her father called her serious, polite, respectful of her elders, cooperative, quiet, and helpful. She was a good girl. Though she rarely spoke, wrapped within her sound-proofed skull, Hanna’s mind was a torrent of activity. Her cranium served as a safe barrier from the adult world that didn’t want to hear what she had to say and from her siblings and peers who might repeat it.
Her mother liked to quip, “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Hanna had extended that wisdom into a philosophy she lived by, “If someone doesn’t want to hear what you have to say, don’t say anything at all.”
Crack. Crack. Crack.
F-You
Even in her mind she thought of the swear as “F-You.” Once Hosea, the oldest of her little brothers, was overheard saying the F-word in his entirety while showing off in front of a neighborhood boy. Father appeared out of nowhere, slipped off his belt, yanked down the boy’s sweatpants, and beat him right there on the spot. Hanna ran into the house screaming, “Daddy’s killing him, he’s killing Hosea.”
Her mom rushed out, pushed past her father, and grabbed the small, thin child by one arm. She screamed in the boy’s face “Oh, no, you didn’t!” She swatted at him as she half-dragged him into the house muttering something about letting him “chew on a bar of soap for a while” and tossed him into his bedroom. Thankfully for Hanna, who felt the punishments of her little brothers worse even than her own, any follow-through on the soap idea was forgotten in all the commotion.
Hosea was the most spanked of the five children. Hanna’s fawnlike, brown eyes and being “such a sweet girl” usually saved her from corporal punishments over minor infractions. Hosea on the other hand was oblivious to the signs of her father’s gradually building anger, plus he was the eldest son and the only boy currently old enough to spank.
The spankings with Hosea started early and then occurred often. It made Hanna feel guilty to think the first one had been sparked by a behavior she’d taught him. She’d worked hard to get him to say the words “Thank you Hanna” and then encouraged it by giving him a hug, or treat, a tickle, or some playtime whenever he said it. Half the time it didn’t even make any sense when he said it. That made Hanna laugh and Hosea smile.
Her parents had friends over one night, a couple that always made Hanna want to squirm and afraid to squirm all at the same time. The couple had been trying for years to have children. They read every book and all the latest articles on child rearing and were always ready to explain the latest research findings or dole out a parenting tip. Hanna knew by now to be on her extra best behavior from the moment they arrived and to retreat into her room as soon as she was able to escape.
On this visit, the couple brought a onesie for Hosea with “Here comes Trouble” printed on it in childish scrawled primary colors. After they’d finished dessert, they handed the gift to him. Her father said to the boy, “Say ‘thank you,’ Hosea.” Hosea played with an apple pie slice on the tray of his high chair with his spork. Her father repeated the command a bit more tersely. Hosea looked up and stared blankly at his father, the man repeated the demand louder, moving closer to the child’s face. At the words “thank you” Hosea gave a broad smile. Hanna thought her father might strike him right then and there, so she asked in a quiet voice, “Should I put him to bed?”
Without taking his eyes off the boy, her father nodded sternly.
She quickly popped off the tray and unbuckled the strap around the tot’s chubby waist. As she scooped him up and lifted him out he said in a loud clear voice, “Thank you, Hanna” to which her father turned a deep shade of red. As Hanna exited the room she heard the couple advise that once a child was ready to be insolent, he was surely ready to be spanked. Immediately after the guests left for the evening, her father retrieved the sleeping toddler from his crib. It was soon evident that he aimed to do whatever was necessary to make him say thank you.
Hanna peered from the top of stairwell. Her forehead wrinkled worriedly as she realized her mother was nowhere in sight. There was no way Hanna could get to her parents’ bedroom without passing by her father. Surely her mother must be able to hear the turmoil. Her father struck the groggy, half naked baby over and over. Hosea screamed until he was hoarse, and his bottom turned darker and darker shades of red. Hanna could hardly bear to change him in the coming weeks as the color settled into an angry black and purple and finally faded to gray tinged with a sickly yellow.
By the time the next baby and then the twins arrived, her parents had decided it was better to hold off before introducing spanking. With the little ones, discipline consisted of timeouts mixed with the occasional swat on the hand or rear end. Momma referred to all three of Hanna’s youngest brothers as “the babies” and kept their bottoms covered in extra absorbent pampers. Even Heth, who used the potty and would be turning four in a month, still sported thick diapers.
“And you will destroy each and every picture…this…this pornography.” Crack.
Her father had discovered her secret drawings.
The first of these Hanna had done four years ago, when she was seven and Hosea was four. She was surprised and excited one evening when her father brought home paint brushes and brightly-colored paints–real acrylic paints–and announced that everyone was to help with a family project. Ever since she could remember, pictures would form in her head, images that demanded to be sketched. These visions of animals, people, scenic views, and places she’d never been or seen consumed her waking thoughts and nightly dreams until she brought them to life on paper or canvas. Often the pictures would take hours and sometimes even days to complete. Most were sketches, colored with stubs of crayons she scrounged from around the house. Pastels or boxed paints that she received at birthdays and Christmas, no matter how carefully rationed, were used up in mere weeks. And no amount of beg
ging would convince her father to buy her more. Her father had little tolerance for a child spending that much time at play when there was babysitting, homework, chores, and Bible study to be done.
Hanna’s heart fluttered and her cheeks flushed pink as her father pulled out from a brown paper bag a rainbow of beautiful paint-filled tubes. Then, he pulled out a plain wooden paddle and laid it on the table in front of them. It had a hole in the handle with a leather string tied in a knot to hang it up.
“You know that everything we do, we do in God’s name,” her father explained, “and when you or Hosea disobey Mommy and me, or when you do things that God doesn’t like, we have to punish you. This is so you’ll learn and will get back on the right path. We never want to hit you with our hands because hands are for holding and hugging. We discipline you because we love you. I want for us to decorate this paddle together, as a family, with symbols of our love for each other.”
Hanna’s heart pounded hard and the color in her checks deepened. Her happiness was replaced by
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