Her Darling Boy

To Rene, with all my love.

The line of texta spreads across the white…a writhing, headless blue snake twisting and turning against the starkness of the blank wall. A noise. The pen drops to the ground, shedding its curling paper skin, the wordstexta now faded only toext. Forgotten, it bleeds blue blood into the carpet.

Mother. Her voice is loud, a high pitched, angry shriek. He shrinks back, cowering in the corner. The stinging slap of her hand across his buttocks rings out. Pain. He screams. Loudly. It hurts…his mind cannot get past this one glaring fact. It hurts. And now the screaming begins to hurt too. His ears, his throat, the stinging flesh where the imprint of her hand must surely be now.

"Stop it," she is saying. "Stop it. Now. Stop it!" another smack across his bottom. He screams louder and she hits him again.

Enraged, he turns and launches himself at her, small plump fists clenched. He pummels her thighs, hands curling into claws. His nails dig into her skin, viciously, ripping at her dress. She struggles to pick him up. He kicks her. She holds him, swearing, sweating. Movement – the walls pass him by. A door opens – it is suddenly dark. He stops kicking and she puts him down.

"Stay here," she is saying. "You're going to bed now." She leaves. A door closes.

There is darkness.

* * *

She shuts the door and leans against it, breathing heavily. The telltale gleam of salty wetness trail down her cheeks – tears of frustration and rage, glittering and bathing the angry red lines where he has scratched her, in stinging salt.

A car pulls into the driveway, engine purring like an overfed cat. Michael. Her darling boy. She walks quickly into the bathroom. Running water. She washes her face and pastes on a smile. Her lips feel as stiff as cardboard. Her bottom lip is cracked and bleeding. Her teeth are yellowing from too many cigarettes, too many glasses of wine. She looks away and fumbles for a hairbrush.

He is sitting in front of the television when she enters the living room. His shirt is unbuttoned, the tie loosened. He looks rumpled and boyish and tired. She feels a fist clench around her heart, feels love squeezing her until it seems she will burst, like an overripe lemon. She stifles the urge to ruffle his hair. He does not like that. He does not like being touched, unless he asks for it.

The television is turned on. Loud. Somewhere in the house, distant bangs can still be heard.

He doesn't look away from the screen. "Where's the boy?"

The boy. His son. Their son. She doesn't look at him. "In his room."

He nods, goes back to watching the show. She presses her lips together. She must not say anything, she knows. She must not anger him. He is tired. She goes, instead, into the kitchen.

He follows her after a moment, eying with distaste the cigarette she holds between two fingers. The red light glows, flickers as she stubs it out.

"You're always sucking on one of those things." She hears the contempt in his voice, but says nothing. "You can suck on them but you won't suck on my–"

"Michael!" Her voice is sharper than she intended. "Don't be crude." The moment the words leave her lips she knows she has made an error. Her eyes widen slightly in fear as an angry red suffuses his face.

He grabs her arm. His fingers pinch into her flesh. "Don't speak to me like that." A low snarl.

"Yes, Michael." Her voice remains steady. "I'm sorry."

"Good." He releases her.

She turns back to the forgotten stove and stirs the pot of simmering white sauce. The thick liquid bubbles and froths. Her hand is shaking. A spitting drop, hot, burning, lands on her arm. She jerks, her breath hissing in between her teeth. His contemptuous snort sounds behind her. "Clumsy bitch," he mutters. There is a thread of malicious satisfaction in his voice.

She keeps stirring. The creamy, frothy mixture bubbles angrily, a grotesquely contorted visage filled with turmoil and rage, staring at up her.

* * *

It is dark outside. The boy is sleeping. Michael is sprawled in his favourite green armchair in the lounge, the lamp beside him turned down low. His long fingers, slender, elegant, lightly hold a book, occasionally turning the pages with effortless grace. Artist's fingers, she thinks. He is an artist. But he doesn't paint anymore. The dim light bathes the pages of the book in yellow light. His face is shadowed, hidden in the darkness. A bottle of red wine sits beside him, opened, half empty.

She watches him read.

On my wedding day, she thinks,on my wedding day, I was happy.

She turns abruptly and walks outside onto the veranda. Moonlight washes the old wooden flooring in pale white light. The gnarled fingers of the old sycamore tree snatch at the shadows, swayed by the wind.

She fumbles in her pocket for the crumpled pack of cigarettes. The scratch of the match striking against the sandpapery face of the battered matchbox seems irrepressibly loud. A cricket's mating call from somewhere in the bushes grates against her ear; insistent – lonely.

She is so very lonely.

The glowing red light of the cigarette seems to act as a tiny, blinking beacon in the sea of darkness. She takes in a drag of the cigarette and puffs out cloudy white smoke. She sighs to herself, revelling in the peace.

It is not to last, of course. From inside, the phone rings. She moves automatically to answer it, then in a brief moment of rebellion hesitates - decides to ignore it. There will be consequences. She does not care. At least, not now.

The phone stops ringing.

He comes up quietly behind her. She does not hear him until he is directly behind her. Her wrist is caught, quite suddenly, in an iron grip, those artist's fingers displaying the cruel strength inherent within them. His fingers squeeze around her wrist, crushing the bone until she lets out a cry of pain and the cigarette drops to the ground. He steps on it, grinding it into the ground with the heel of his shoe. The tiny, crunching sound of dirt being ground seems to scream in the silence. She looks into his face, a twisted mask of rage and shrinks back against the metal railing of the veranda.

He steps closer, crowding her, cornering her. His breath fans her face, the stink of alcohol.Ah, she thinks,the bottle of wine. She should have known.

"Michael?" her voice is unsteady, traitorous, betraying her fear. "Michael, what's wrong?"
He takes her by the arms, fingers digging into her flesh, and shakes her. His eyes are wild, pupil's dilated, empty blank holes in a contortion of the visage that was not his, a visage she once did not recognise, but was now all too familiar with.

Her head snaps back and forth, her back slamming painfully into the railing.

"Whore," he is muttering, "Whore!" His voice rises. "Who is he? Who is he, huh?" Drops of spittle fly from his mouth and land on her face.

"What?" she is gasping, fighting panic. A staccato stammer. It seems to enrage him further. "Michael, what are you talking about?"

His face twists, contorts. Abruptly, he stops shaking her and grabs her by her hair, twisting his fingers into her scalp. "Who is he?" he hisses.

David, she thinks.David, from work. Asking for the Henderson file.She cannot seem to form the words to say this. "I – I don't know," she blurts out.

"Liar!" He tightens his fingers in her hair and yanks, bringing her head down on the rail. She winces. "Lying whore!" Again. He is still yelling, but she ceases to hear it. The side of her face smashes repetitively against the metal. Someone is crying out, a soft, pathetic whimper, the only sound aside from the sickening thud of her skull hitting the metal, again and again. Then there is only the roar of pain in her ears.

When she is bleeding heavily, he stops. He releases hold on her hair so quickly that she simply drops to the ground. She must not faint, she thinks through the foggy haze descending over her mind. She must not faint. She hears him take a step backward, hears the horror in his voice as he mutters, "Oh god." Softly now, "Oh god." Then he is beside her, cradling her head tenderly between two hands. He lifts her gently, gingerly pulling her into his arms. Something hot, wet, splatters on her face and she thinks it is blood until it trickles into her mouth and she tastes the salt. His tears. "Oh darling." He is crying brokenly. "Oh darling. I'm sorry. So sorry. Please don't leave me."

Comfort him, she thinks. Comfort him. She is the strong one, has always been the strong one. She needs to be strong for him now. Michael. Her Michael. Her darling boy. "It's alright," she tries to murmur soothingly. "It's alright." But the words sound wrong to her ears. Her teeth are loose, she realises, tasting blood in her mouth. His words are a litany in her ears. "I'm sorry. I love you. Please don't leave me." And then she hears nothing at all.

* * *

In the morning she wakes to find blood on the pillow, a dark brown stain that has somehow formed the morbid shape of a blurred heart. She stares at it for a moment then sits up.

Her head spins for a moment, but it stops quickly. The bathroom. Sunlight blazes through the glazed glass windows, reflecting of pearlescent white tiles, off the mirror on the bathtub wall. The light seems to blind her. She squints into the mirror.

Battered is a word that comes to mind. Her face is a vivid rainbow of colours, blue, purpling, green. There is dried blood caking in her hair. She touches the side of her face gingerly and winces. Her face seems smashed in, boneless. And the pain…she shuts it out. Her mouth twists in contempt. Fool, a snide, taunting voice inside her head mocks. Weak, foolish woman. Career…independence [RJH1] …strength…and pride. In what, now? What did she have left to be proud of?

With a grimace she twists away from the mirror and staggers out of the bathroom, shower forgotten. She needs to wake the boy. The room seems empty when she steps inside. It is dim…the curtains are still drawn. The bed is empty and hasn't been slept in. Panic grips her heart for a moment until she espies the small crack between the doors of closet. Ah.

The closet door swings open quietly. She looks down upon the small form curled up on the pile of clothes; an old red anorak wrapped tightly around him and is overwhelmed by a tidal wave of tenderness. His face is screwed up into a tiny frown, brows drawn tightly together. A plump thumb rests inside the small mouth, enclosed between soft, plump limps. Her hand reaches out – hesitates briefly, and brushes away a stray curl.

He stirs. His eyes open, and a sleepy smile graces his lips. She smiles back at him. She thinks, perhaps this will not be so bad.

The peace lasts until breakfast.

"I want ice-cream."

"It's too early for ice-cream. Eat your porridge."

His face screws up in displeasure. He scrabbles to get out of the chair. "Sit still," she orders automatically. He sits still, silently, mutinously, small fists clenched, staring at the bowl of thick gunk, the clear golden honey swirled on top in a smiley face doing nothing to appease.

She spoons up some of the goo and holds it in front of his lips. "Open, darling."

"No."

"Just have a little."

"NO!" He flings out an arm, hitting the spoon. The porridge flies into her face, wet, sticky, dripping. She presses her lips together, puts the spoon down. Stands.

Freezes.

Systematically, he dips his hands into the bowl, alternately flinging the gunk at her, and smearing it on himself, his face, his hair.A little,he seems to be mocking her.I'm just having a little. Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly, a fish out of water. She watches, mesmerised, as the porridge drips down onto his clothing, splatters on the floor. He picks up the bowl and somewhat unsteadily – the porcelain is heavy – places it on his head.Porridge bowl hat.

It slides off, crashing to the floor, and shatters. The sound seems to pull her out of her daze. She strides forward, wincing momentarily at the pain in her head, her movements jerky. "That's it," she mutters. "That is it."

He screeches as she tries to pick him up, hitting out at her. Nails. Claws. Fists. She ignores the pain and stacks him over her shoulder. His fists pummel her back, and then abruptly, he changes tactics and reaches up to grab a fistful of her hair. She hisses, clenching her teeth.

In the bathroom she locks him in the shower stall and turns on the taps in the bathtub. While the water runs she struggles to undress him. He is like a caged animal, hissing and shrieking and clawing to escape, but in the end stands naked, vulnerable. She dumps him in the lukewarm water and picks up the soap. He hurls water at her.

"Stop that."

His face is contorted, a mingled expression of frustrated rage and tears, and in that moment he does not seem to be her son, but a demon, a beast, inhuman. He whines, a sound of protest and pushes her hands away. She ignores him and scrubs harder. They tussle. He swipes his nails across her arm, leaving four red slashes on her skin. She slaps him. His nails rake her face. And now he is screaming, deafeningly, unceasing. "Stop it," she is trying to say. Her vocabulary seems reduced to this. "Stop it!"

The noise. God, the noise. It grates at her, the scrape of sharp fingernails vicious across a blackboard. God, why won't he stop screaming? His hand lashes out into the side of her aching, battered face. She blacks out for a moment from the pain, but only for a moment.

She grabs his hair and, almost distantly, watches herself dunk his head under the water. He struggles, but she is stronger. Yes. Stronger. She is not as weak as he thinks she is. Michael. Michael. Darling, darling Michael who wooed and praised and laughed at her all along…silly, foolish, weak woman.

No. She was strong. He didn't know it, but she was strong now, and he would know it soon enough. His hands were clawing at her, tiny, curled fists, fingers digging into her arms. She does not feel the pain. A trickle of blood seeps out of her skin from under his nails. His struggles get fiercer. His kicking legs send water spraying everywhere; his heaving body sends it sloshing down the sides of the tub. One clutching hand loosens from her arm and slams into the mirrored wall with such force that it shatters.

Eventually the splashing heaves and convulsions stop. The nails that dig into her skin slacken their hold. The small, bloodied hands slide slowly back into the water. She lets go. The little body slides further down into the tub.

Her face, as she lifts him gently out of the water is soft, the expression of an adoring mother. She dries him with a towel, white and fluffy, cloud cloth. She wraps the cold body inside it, holding him in her arms while she reaches into the bathroom cabinet for antiseptic and bandages. Tenderly, she cleans the wounded hand, carefully removing the small sharp slivers of glass still embedded within it, bandaging it gently so she does not hurt him.

She sits cross-legged on the flooded bathroom floor, listening to the rhythmic drip of the tap and flinching away from the sunlight that filters through the glazed glass windows like rays of heaven breaking through the clouds. She cradles her child tenderly in her arms, rocking him to sleep. "My darling boy," she murmurs. "My darling, darling boy."

Darling Boy

My darling boy-
When I first held you
In my arms
Your little fists clenched at me
Grabbing at my strands of hair
So fierce, you were, so determined
But without malice
No, none at all.

My darling boy
When I first held you
In my arms
Your lashes fanned dark
And sooty
A crescent moon sweeping
Your soft plump cheek
And sweetly
Your lips would curve

My darling boy
When I first held you
In my arms
You slept so ever
Peacefully
When there was a noise
You stirred
And smiled sleepily at me

My darling boy
Now I hold you
In my arms
But so still you lay
So silently
Why don't you ever
Smile at me
Anymore?