Ding Ding! Round Two

"Jehhhhhhh-nifer!" hurtling down the hall, bouncing from wall to wall around the corner, and through my bedroom door, jerks me from my thoughts.  And so round two begins.

 I snap to my feet, a bit disoriented and nervous about reaching the location of the yell quickly enough not to warrant greater ire from its source.  If a second yell is warranted I know how it will increase the punishment's severity.  As I rush past my bedroom door I see that the light is on in Mom and Dad's room.  I swallow my stomach back down to where it belongs and quickly make my way into the only other lighted room upstairs to find Dad waiting for me, belt in hand.

He holds the belt, folded in half, an end in each hand, then pushes his hands slowly toward one another and quickly jerks them back apart causing a loud snap as the two halves of belt reconnect.  My body shuts down for a split second then stiffens to attention.  "Shut the door" he spats at me with pure disgust.  I do, then return to position of attention.

I am ordered to tell him, again, the offense committed.  I keep my voice loud and steady because I know he likes strength, and relay each horrible detail, making me feel disgusted with my own self.  He asks if I deserve to be punished for this.  "Yes", of course I think, as if there was any other answer anyway.  But I hold a secret hope that I already had been.  I know (maybe from the snapping of the belt or maybe from the leading questions) he has a plan for punishment all thought out regardless of my answer or anything I could possibly say.  All I can do with words now is make it worse, so I pray for "right" answers.

"What do you think your punishment should be?" is the next question.  Hmmmmmm...do I really have a say--a choice? Should I suggest our earlier meeting count as punishment?  Should I suggest a grounding?  Definitely nothing that has to do with that belt he's snapping at me...  But as I just said, all I can do now is make it worse with words.  "I don't know" is all I can force from my dry, shaking mouth.  "No, of course you don't know.  You're a moron who can't think for yourself.  You're a follower.  Hold out your hands.  Twenty on each side.  If you move or I can't hear you, I will start over.  Do you understand, Moron?"  "Yes", I choke out as I extend both arms forward, palm facing the ceiling--I knew this drill.  Dad loved punishments that hurt like hell but left no marks so this one was one of his favorites.

"Whap!" The pain startles me.  I don't remember it hurting this badly, though I'm sure it did.  I forget that I'm supposed to be counting--sensation overload.  "Okay, we'll try it again, " Dad oozes with sarcasm.  So another first try: "whap!"  "One" I amost shout jumping ever so slightly.  I can do this.  Mind over matter.  By ten, however, my voice shrinks and begins to shake and I'm using my body and all mind control I have left to force my arm to remain forward as it seems to have developed a survivalistic mind of its own.  As my elbow jabs into my stomach my stomach pushes it back forward--all body parts seem to have cried "every man for himself!"--if stomach can keep arm outstreched it won't get punched, if face doesn't cry it won't get slapped, if legs fight the jello-ey feeling in them and continue holding up the body, they won't be kicked...

Unfortunately, elbow beats stomach at about count 14 and the belt slips to the side of my hand.  "You want to play games, Puke?  We'll start over."  Whap-ow!  "One" I shrivel.

By my right hand's count of 20, I'm actually looking forward to left hand's turn both to take the pain from where I can stand it no more and to get this whole mess over with.  And actually, the left hand is usually a bit easier--body and mind have about gone numb by this point and Dad's resolve has begun to weaken along with his strength if this is possible. Or maybe I'm just used to it now.  Finally, "twenty", the relief of the end has given me my voice back.

"Get out of my sight, Puke", Dad snarls.  "Yes" is my only answer as I turn and try not to run back to my sanctuary.

By now it's bedtime so I put on pajamas and wait for the sound of his heavy steps going down the stairs.  I don't dare turn on any lights.  I walk softly down the hall to the bathroom then return to the dark sadness of my own room.  I lay atop the covers as I havent' been instructed to go to sleep yet.  I wait.  Will round three be tonight?  Will there be a round three or could it be that Dad had just given me all of my punishment?  No, I know better and wait for round three.  I'm so exhausted but desperately try not to allow myself sleep yet lest I should anger the beast even more.

I survived round two.  This rock is kind of small and insignificant--like an oboe player during a Bon Jovi song. I think I'll take it out of my brook and place it on Dad's headstone--I have plenty of music without it.  Whattaya think, Gare?