by D. L. Scott
The door creaked open the rest of the way revealing his intimidating frame in the doorway. He appeared to be a dark spirit as shadows dancing gleefully across his face like they were destined to live there.
When he strode into the room to stand before me, my skin crawled at his proximity but I knew better than to move away from him. Trying to escape the unavoidable would only worsen the abuse.
Before the actual punishment could begin, he would foreshadow it with his psychological battery.
“Do you know why you are being punished?” he asked evenly. I swear he thrived on watching others squirm which was exactly what I was doing at the sound of his malicious voice.
“One of the plates wasn’t clean,” I admitted and a tear slipped out over my cheek.
“And?” he asked, waiting for me to say more. My mind raced for what he wanted me to say. I drew blanks because honestly I was unsure what else I had done.
“The pill!” he snapped, yanking me from my thoughts. Another tear chased the first one down. My sister’s soft, rhythmic breathing stopped signaling that she had woken up. Thankfully she knew to be quiet.
“Please, sir. I didn’t take the pill. I’m telling you the truth,” I pleaded as tears shamelessly fell down my face.
“Don’t fucking lie to me! Assume the position!” he shouted, making me jump and my sister whimper. Please honey, don’t make another noise.
“Yes sir,” I said loudly hoping to cover up her sniffling. Scrambling, I knelt in front of the bed, placing my hands on the mattress.
“Pull them down,” he growled. I quickly yanked my jeans and panties down my thighs revealing my bare bottom.
With no preemptive warning, the thick fish board slammed down across my bottom with excruciating force and I howled in pain.
“That’s one,” he said simply as I wailed. Everything in me wanted to fight but it was useless.
Crack! The second strike hit and new tears rolled over my eyes. I wailed loudly in an effort to cover up my sister’s growing cries.
“That’s two,” he said. I braced myself for the next lick. Instead, I was faced with more head games.
“Those dishes are to be free of grease. Do you understand me?” he demanded. I sniffled and wiped my nose with the back of my hand.
“Yes, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, hoping he would understand.
“Yes fucking what?” he boomed.
“Yes sir!” I screeched. Crack! My sobs were uncontrollable now and I shuddered violently. Her cries above me were now nearly as loud as my own. Please be quiet little one. I was thankful my other two sisters were safely sleeping across the house in their bedroom.
“That’s three,” he said after his third blow.
Crack! I tried to think of happier times. At school I enjoyed learning the beautiful French language. My dream was to see the Eiffel Tower one day. I could almost envision myself sitting at a bistro table outside a small café enjoying a French dessert and…
Crack!
“That’s four.” C’est quatre.
Crack! Eventually, the sharp pain would turn into more of a dull throb once we got past the five lick mark.
“That’s five.” C’est cinq. Ah, there it is. I welcomed the numbing burn of the fifth whipping. My body tensed as I waited for the next one but he stopped again. More mental mumbo jumbo.
“Are you going to take any more of my pills?” he demanded. At this point, it was safer to just agree with him rather than fuel his unwarranted fury.
“No sir, I won’t,” I said desperately hoping it was the right thing to say.
“That’s what I thought. If I ever find another one missing, you can’t even imagine your punishment.” Before I had time to picture what that might entail, he delivered another blow.
Crack!
“That’s six.” C’est six. My cries were snotty gasps of air by this point. Only four more and I could go to sleep.
“What are you crying about?” he asked my sister nastily. Before she could answer and get herself in trouble, I distracted him by attempting to pull up my pants. Thankfully, I diverted his attention because he yanked them back down.
“I’m not finished. Do you want more?” he asked angrily.
“No sir,” I whimpered.
Crack!
“That’s seven.” C’est sept. Maybe one day I could live in Paris. Surely some handsome Frenchman would fall madly in love with me and propose to me on a Seine River cruise.
Crack!
“That’s eight.” C’est huit. And we would have lots of babies that I would teach English to and my husband would teach them French. They would be bilingual and successful because of it.
Crack!
“That’s nine.” C’est neuf. My house would be large enough for my sisters and mother as well. We’d spend our days baking lovely treats and reading love stories.
Crack!
“That’s ten.” C’est dix. He was finally finished and I’d successfully made it through many licks immersed in my fantasies of a better life.
“You’re grounded,” he said, panting heavily from the exertion. I hastily pulled up my pants and sat down on the edge of the bed, wincing at the pain.
“Yes, sir,” I agreed. It didn’t matter what I was grounded from or punished to do. The quicker I could get him out of my room, the better.
“You’re grounded from your damn books. If I see you so much as look at one, you’ll have a repeat of tonight. Is that what you want?” he asked, tempting me to argue with him.
“No sir,” I spoke, hastily. Without another word, he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
I sat stunned for a moment as tearful hiccups wracked my body. When two small legs hung over the side of the bed and climbed off, I tried unsuccessfully to calm my cries. My sister wrapped her arms around me in a fierce hug.
“Let’s get to sleep, Sis,” I whispered, pulling her next to me as we shared my pillow. The pain that burned across my bottom suggested I would be majorly bruised tomorrow. When a roach scurried across my arm that was wrapped possessively around my younger sister, I swatted it away.
Slowly our breathing evened out and we welcomed the safest haven in our lives. Sleep.
About the Author
K Webster is a thirty-two-year-old self-proclaimed book nerd. She enjoys spending time with her husband of eleven years and their two lovely children.
By day, she wears many hats, including part-time graphic designer, blogger, student, business owner, and of course, wife and mom. She is currently working towards her college degree as well as other writing projects.
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Sleep Tight
By rJo Herman
Trying to make kids cry.
It takes so long to learn this trade,
To skulk and tap and moan,
It’s boring waiting all the time
In someone else’s home.
– Richard Macwilliam “It’s boring being a monster”
It no longer stayed under the bed. Now, as soon as Elliott’s mother tucked him in and shut the door, it pulled its twisted body up to the headboard and trailed its gnarled fingers across his tender cheek, and whispered into his sweet, quivering ear, “Shh, boy. I’m here.”
Elliott screamed into his pillow, rocking back and forth, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, then finally sobbed himself to sleep. It gently stroked his hair back off his forehead and watched him until dawn, then slithered down under the dust ruffle, missing him even before he was up and gone for the day.
It was born under the moon and stars amongst the tangled roots of a twisted river birch. Its parents taught it to pick up the seeds that fell from the tree to plant farther along the creek. That was what its kind did, planted the wild trees along the rivers and creeks of the valley in the quiet nights. Its parents warned it to never go near the houses on the ridge where peo
ple lived and children shrieked with laughter. It wondered what its parents would do, if they knew that not only had it been inside the house, but it had found a shining boy to be its friend.
It loved the nights when the Elliott’s mother sat on the edge of the bed reading stories from a big book with a bright red and gold cover. While she read of dragons and knights and Elliott sat quietly listening, it gazed lovingly at his boy from the headboard.
Elliott never looked at it, just leaned against his mother and stared at the pages, pointing at the pictures. When his mother finished a story, Elliott would beg her to read another. Some nights she read two or three, but always she stopped, put away the book and told him it was time to sleep. Elliott would cry and beg her to please not leave him alone.
“It is right there, Mom, on the headboard! Please!”
“We have discussed this before, Elliott, there is nothing there. Now close your eyes and get some sleep.” Then she turned out the light, shut the door, and it would whisper not to worry, and Elliott would scream.
It had no concept of time. Oh, it knew there was day and night, and it waited for the night to be with Elliott, but it had no clue that as each day and each night passed, Elliott was growing and learning. While it waited beneath the bed ruffle, wringing its hands in anticipation of seeing him come night, Elliott went out each day, laughing, talking other boys, and eating breakfast, lunch and dinner to make his muscles strong, his bones stretch. He went to school and learned to read, to write, to think, to wonder. While it saw only day and night, Elliott moved through days, then weeks, then years, growing and thinking and learning.
One night, many years after it had first come to visit, though it did not know it had been many years, it was startled to realize that Elliott was looking directly into its eyes without flinching. It stared back in wonder. Elliott’s eyes were bright and shining. They held its gaze as he reached up from his pillow as if to touch its head.
It cringed slightly, trembling uncontrollably. But Elliott shuddered, closed his eyes and rocked himself to sleep.
It wondered what to make of this? It had prayed to the stars and the moon that its boy would come to love it. Was that happening? It slithered down under the dust ruffle, overcome with confusion and fear. Something was changing. It was uncomfortable with change.
A few nights later long after the light was turned off, Elliott whispered, “I have always seen you, you know. They say you are just my imagination, but I know you are really there.”
It could not breathe, let alone reply.
“You used to scare me. I used to be so scared that sometimes I threw up, and Mom would let me sleep in her room. She would tell me not to be afraid, but she couldn’t see you, so she didn’t know.”
It wanted to say something perfect and right, but could not find its voice.
“I have been reading about things like you,” said Elliott. “Some books say that things like you are only real to those who believe. Mom does not believe in you, so that would explain why she cannot see you.”
“Perhaps,” it rasped.
“I guess I believe in you because I can see you.”
“Perhaps,” it rasped again, shivering.
“So, if one day I cannot see you anymore, will you still be there?”
“Perhaps,” it rasped again, weeping at the thought that Elliott might no longer see it.
The boy gazed at it for a long moment, then rolled over and went to sleep. It slithered under the dust ruffle, shuddering violently. What was happening?
Many nights passed without Elliott coming to bed. It crawled to the headboard, but the door never opened, no one came in. Each night it waited, hugging itself tighter and tighter, becoming smaller and smaller. It stopped slithering under the dust ruffle, hiding from the day. It missed Elliott so much, it did not care that the sunlight blinded it. It just sat there on its perch, shrinking into itself.
Finally, one bright afternoon, Elliott stumbled into the bedroom making a big ruckus, throwing down a wrinkled knapsack and kicking off his smelly shoes.
“I’ll be right down, Mom!”
He sprawled across the bed, stretching and sighing, then rolled over and looked surprised to see it sitting on the headboard.
“You are here?” he whispered. “In the daylight?”
“I am,” it croaked from deep in its parched throat. “I have been waiting for you.”
“I was at camp. We slept on the ground in sleeping bags under the moon and the stars. It was great!”
“I have been here waiting.”
“Sorry. I didn’t think to tell ya. I gotta go down for lunch.”
It shivered and shivered and hugged itself so tightly it felt like it would crush its own bones. When the night fell, it heard Elliott tell his mother that she did not need to read him a stories anymore. He was too big for that now. His mother gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, and after she shut the door, Elliott rubbed it off.
“She still thinks I am a baby,” he told it. “ but I am ten years old. I am not her baby anymore.”
Elliott sat up and gave it a long, clear look. It blinked back with fear-filled wide eyes.
“I am not a baby anymore, and you do not scare me. Why do you come here?”
“I live here -- for you”
“But why? I have never liked you. What have you ever done for me?”
A horrible pain ripped through its heart.
“I stay close to comfort you.”
“But you do not comfort me. You annoy me.”
Its heart cracked, bleeding into its belly. It pulled its arms tighter and tighter around itself for fear it would explode.
“I love you. You are my friend. You are my boy.”
“What makes you think that? We have never been friends. Friends laugh and talk together. Friends play games and tell each other secrets. You are not my friend, and I am not your boy for sure.”
It cried out with agony and sadness. It rocked back and forth, wailing, sobbing. Its crusty thin fingers locked around its shrinking body.
Then it fell from the headboard where it had sat so many nights loving its boy. It fell and hit its head. With the last blink of its eyes, it raised one hand and whispered, “My boy.”
It left no trace of its existence on the floor or under the dust ruffle. It simply vanished, and Elliott never saw, or thought about it again, until one night many years later when Elliott was grown, and tucking his own sweet son into bed, he was startled to hear his Michael say, “It is sitting right there on the headboard, Dad. Please do not leave me alone!”
Elliott saw nothing on the headboard. He searched his boy’s face, trying to think just what to say. He finally gave him a kiss on the forehead, shook his head and said softly,
“We have talked about this. There is nothing there. Now go to sleep.”
And he shut the door.
About the Author
rJo Herman grew up in western states: California, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado... with broad vistas and dry river beds. The West has shaped her taste in food, her recreation preferences, her reading choices, and her speech patterns. She loves the treeless prairie, the thin, sharp air and the "hills."
She lives with her grey striped companion, Emil Catt I, and hopes to write one perfect story her grandchildren will tell their grandchildren.
Hunting Season
By T. D. Harvey
“...they come to us, these restless dead,
Shrouds woven from the words of men,
With trumpets sounding overhead (The walls of hope have grown so thin
And all our vaunted innocence
Has withered in this endless frost)
That promise little recompense
For all we risk, for all we've lost...”
– Mira Grant, Feed
Nothing. All around me appears to be…nothing. I wake to darkness so complete that nothing is visible. There is no star shine, no moon lighting the sky, no street lamps casting their amber glow around the e
dges of my curtains. Beneath me, I do not find my cotton sheets or my comfortable memory foam mattress and pillow. Instead, I find solid ground; cold, hard and uneven. It feels like concrete, the type that is laid with small stones mixed into it. My stomach feels hollow and tumultuous as I realize this is not right. Where am I? Am I blind?
My body shivers with cold but sweat breaks out and fear paralyses my throat. I cannot swallow, cannot call out. Something pushes into the back of my head and I move a little, assuming it’s a stone in the floor, but no matter where I move my head, I still feel the hard lump. I feel with my hands and find that I am wearing a blindfold.
Relief floods through me and I feel my tense muscles relaxing. It’s dark because I am blindfolded. I can now feel the soft cloth encircle my head and eyes and I wonder how I could have missed it before. I suppose it was the strangeness of the situation and the fear coursing through me. With both hands I claw at the material and wrench it free from my eyes. It is still dark. I wait. My eyes are sure to adjust soon. They don’t
My relief drains away and cold seeps back into my body. I cannot see and I cannot understand why. Who would blindfold me anyway? And why bother, when I am in total darkness? I am still lying on the cold ground and wonder if I am held there by force, or by fear. I try to move my legs.
They bend and flex, but are stiff and slow. How long have I been lying here? I already know my arms are free so I attempt to sit up. I lift my upper body, walking it slowly upwards with my hands until pressure over my hips halts my progress. I try thrusting my hips upwards, but am held firmly to the ground. I explore with my hands.
A thick, smooth strap, leather perhaps, lies across my body and is fixed to the ground, on either side of me. I can feel metal rods set into recesses in the concrete next to each hip. The strap is fixed around these rods, but I can’t feel how. There is a row of thin raised segments…stitching? Yes, I think it’s stitching. A leather strap, I’m sure. Have I been stitched into this strap? I cannot find any buckles or any other way the strap is held.
