myself look stupid in front of him.
Sensing my reluctance, Father Paul picked up a paint brush, then placing my hand over the top of his, he slowly showed me how to paint. So we sat at the table, Father Paul watching over my shoulder, as I slowly dragged the paintbrush over the paper as I started to paint pictures of the characters from the book he had read to me. By the time I had finished, it was bedtime and Father Paul had to go home. With his encouragement, I had painted several pictures, which I was really proud of. Without saying a word, my mother had sat watching from the corner of the room with my brother and sisters.
When Father Paul left in the evening, Mother had developed the habit of always walking him to his beat-up old truck, which he parked at the end of our garden path. She would return minutes later, always in a good mood. That night my mother walked him the short distance to his truck, but on her return to the house, she was furious. She slammed the front door with such force that it rattled in its frame. I looked up at her as she stormed towards me, and again I saw that spark of yellow in her eyes which I had seen when she was fighting with the woman at the safe house.
“You selfish child!” she roared. “He doesn’t just come here to see you !”
I remember giving my usual meek reply by apologising to her. I always fucking hated myself for doing that. She ignored my apology and continued to scream.
“What do you think you were doing?
Hogging him to yourself like that all evening!”
I apologised again, although I still wasn’t sure what for. I tried to explain I had only wanted to do some painting with Father Paul. She shouted over my explanation as she continued to seethe at me.
“ Paint! You can’t paint! Even Father Paul was getting sick of you! He kept looking over at me and shaking his head in despair! ”
That fucking hurt. Was Father Paul really doing that? Was he really making fun of me as I sat and painted with him? I couldn’t believe he would do that. I wouldn’t believe it. Father Paul had bought me the water colour paints. He had helped me to paint, and that had meant so much to me.
In an instant, my mother had thrown my beliefs into doubt. I looked up into her burning eyes as she glared at me. Without even thinking, I said, “Sorry.” I know that sounds fucking pitiful, right? But that’s what I said.
Turning away from me, she replied, “ You ruined Father Paul's evening and everybody else’s. Now get to bed!” Then taking the pictures I had painted of Toad, Ratty, Badger, and Mole, she tore them to shreds with her claws.
With my heart racing in my chest, I looked at my sisters and brother. Were they coming up with me? I hated going upstairs by myself. I still wasn’t used to sleeping on my own. At least Nik would come up with me. I looked at them, but they all seemed to have found other objects far more interesting than me to look at.
“I said, get to bed! ” Mother barked.
On my way up to my bedroom, I made the loudest stomping sounds that I could. Not in defiance, but to hide the sound of my sobs. I wouldn’t let her hear me cry. Something inside of me wouldn’t let me.
Chapter Eleven
Jack
During that springtime, Father Paul took us on several more days out. Some of these were to the country, and others, to the city. It was on these occasions that we felt like a family, and I liked that. Although we had started to call Father Paul, ‘Dad’ in the privacy of our little home, on these days out, we referred to him as Father Paul.
Mother explained it would make sense if me, my brother and sisters, when away from our home and out of earshot of other Vampyrus and Lycanthrope, we called him ‘Dad’, as we already did at home. Nik and me jumped at the chance.
My sisters didn't appear to object either. Father Paul agreed that this was a good idea, but emphasised we were only to refer to him as ‘Dad’ in our home or on trips away.
He explained to
Sensing my reluctance, Father Paul picked up a paint brush, then placing my hand over the top of his, he slowly showed me how to paint. So we sat at the table, Father Paul watching over my shoulder, as I slowly dragged the paintbrush over the paper as I started to paint pictures of the characters from the book he had read to me. By the time I had finished, it was bedtime and Father Paul had to go home. With his encouragement, I had painted several pictures, which I was really proud of. Without saying a word, my mother had sat watching from the corner of the room with my brother and sisters.
When Father Paul left in the evening, Mother had developed the habit of always walking him to his beat-up old truck, which he parked at the end of our garden path. She would return minutes later, always in a good mood. That night my mother walked him the short distance to his truck, but on her return to the house, she was furious. She slammed the front door with such force that it rattled in its frame. I looked up at her as she stormed towards me, and again I saw that spark of yellow in her eyes which I had seen when she was fighting with the woman at the safe house.
“You selfish child!” she roared. “He doesn’t just come here to see you !”
I remember giving my usual meek reply by apologising to her. I always fucking hated myself for doing that. She ignored my apology and continued to scream.
“What do you think you were doing?
Hogging him to yourself like that all evening!”
I apologised again, although I still wasn’t sure what for. I tried to explain I had only wanted to do some painting with Father Paul. She shouted over my explanation as she continued to seethe at me.
“ Paint! You can’t paint! Even Father Paul was getting sick of you! He kept looking over at me and shaking his head in despair! ”
That fucking hurt. Was Father Paul really doing that? Was he really making fun of me as I sat and painted with him? I couldn’t believe he would do that. I wouldn’t believe it. Father Paul had bought me the water colour paints. He had helped me to paint, and that had meant so much to me.
In an instant, my mother had thrown my beliefs into doubt. I looked up into her burning eyes as she glared at me. Without even thinking, I said, “Sorry.” I know that sounds fucking pitiful, right? But that’s what I said.
Turning away from me, she replied, “ You ruined Father Paul's evening and everybody else’s. Now get to bed!” Then taking the pictures I had painted of Toad, Ratty, Badger, and Mole, she tore them to shreds with her claws.
With my heart racing in my chest, I looked at my sisters and brother. Were they coming up with me? I hated going upstairs by myself. I still wasn’t used to sleeping on my own. At least Nik would come up with me. I looked at them, but they all seemed to have found other objects far more interesting than me to look at.
“I said, get to bed! ” Mother barked.
On my way up to my bedroom, I made the loudest stomping sounds that I could. Not in defiance, but to hide the sound of my sobs. I wouldn’t let her hear me cry. Something inside of me wouldn’t let me.
Chapter Eleven
Jack
During that springtime, Father Paul took us on several more days out. Some of these were to the country, and others, to the city. It was on these occasions that we felt like a family, and I liked that. Although we had started to call Father Paul, ‘Dad’ in the privacy of our little home, on these days out, we referred to him as Father Paul.
Mother explained it would make sense if me, my brother and sisters, when away from our home and out of earshot of other Vampyrus and Lycanthrope, we called him ‘Dad’, as we already did at home. Nik and me jumped at the chance.
My sisters didn't appear to object either. Father Paul agreed that this was a good idea, but emphasised we were only to refer to him as ‘Dad’ in our home or on trips away.
He explained to
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