Ethanâsometimes it was in a gesture, a glance or the way her son spoke. Claire loathed it. She hated that she was never allowed to forget. Perhaps Mark still felt it too. But as much as she willed it to go away, that was the problem. Momentum couldnât be destroyed.
Ω
ETHAN SWALLOWED THE SHOWER WATER, taking big gulps and spitting them out. Mum left for work; he heard her footsteps against the wooden floor. The front door slammed. He washed his hair and used the remaining shampoo to lather his body. He didnât have a lot of pubes yetâjust a light scattering of coarse hairsâbut they were definitely there. His body was changing. As he rubbed the area near his groin, his penis stiffened and his legs grew tight. Heat soared to his head.
These urges had only started recently, a photo or glimpse of a breast through a shirt suddenly sending Ethan into a quiet frenzy. He stroked his penis hastily, wanting to do this as fast as possible. Warmth spread to his stomach and he tilted his head backward, allowing the hot water to fall over his face. He was annoyed with his mum. She treated him like a baby. He wasnât stupid; he wasnât a child. Children might not understand complicated things, but they also didnât do what Ethan was doing right now.
When he cameâa thread of fire escaping his bodyâEthan let out a low moan. He choked on the sound, hoping it was dampened by the water slapping the tiles, but remembered Mum wasnât home. His tiny emission clung to his body before snaking down the drain. Ethan shivered, a ridge of goose bumps appearing on his arms. He rinsed his body one more time and turned off the tap. Then he quickly got dressed and went to eat breakfast.
It was a rare treat to be home alone. Ethan made himself a huge bowl of cereal, staring at milk being absorbed into the grains. Sometimes the finality of things struck him, like the sadness of mixing Weetabix and milk. They could never be unmixedâeven if Ethan had a centrifuge and separated the milk particles from the cereal particles, he still couldnât undo how theyâd changed. Other things like this made him sad too: breaking eggs, mixing a cake, untwisting the cap of a new bottle of Coke. None of those things could be undone. He ate his breakfast in front of the television.
After morning talk shows replaced morning cartoons, Ethan wandered into his mumâs bedroom. He loved the smell of her bed. White sheets steeped in her scentâflowery perfume, laundry powder, the nutty smell of her shampoo. Her smell attached itself to everything in their home. Being in her bed reminded Ethan of having nightmares, waking up terrified, and creeping into her room. Sheâd hold him, stroke his hair, promise that there were no monsters under his bed; she was the only person who knew how to make his heart beat normally again. Sometimes Ethan snuck into her bedroom, rested his head on the cool cotton pillow and inhaled her smell. It made him feel safe. He lay under her blankets, watching the day change from the other side of the curtain.
Outside, people walked past, cars started and stopped; the postman who listened to Radio National made his rounds. Next door, the little kids played in their front yard. It sounded like they were having a tea party. The rhythm of daily life lulled Ethan back to sleep.
He was woken abruptly by a loud knock at the front door. Ethan wasnât allowed to answer the door when he was home alone. He sat up in the bed and pretended he was a statue. Mumâs bedroom overlooked the street, but with the curtain drawn Ethan couldnât see who was there. Another knock. Someone stood outside at the window. The silhouette of a tall man.
The man paced the front of the house and Ethan tried to quiet his breathing. Maybe the man was planning a robbery. Ethan quickly listed the places he could hide: under the bed, inside the wardrobe, in the triangle of space behind the door. All the good
Ω
ETHAN SWALLOWED THE SHOWER WATER, taking big gulps and spitting them out. Mum left for work; he heard her footsteps against the wooden floor. The front door slammed. He washed his hair and used the remaining shampoo to lather his body. He didnât have a lot of pubes yetâjust a light scattering of coarse hairsâbut they were definitely there. His body was changing. As he rubbed the area near his groin, his penis stiffened and his legs grew tight. Heat soared to his head.
These urges had only started recently, a photo or glimpse of a breast through a shirt suddenly sending Ethan into a quiet frenzy. He stroked his penis hastily, wanting to do this as fast as possible. Warmth spread to his stomach and he tilted his head backward, allowing the hot water to fall over his face. He was annoyed with his mum. She treated him like a baby. He wasnât stupid; he wasnât a child. Children might not understand complicated things, but they also didnât do what Ethan was doing right now.
When he cameâa thread of fire escaping his bodyâEthan let out a low moan. He choked on the sound, hoping it was dampened by the water slapping the tiles, but remembered Mum wasnât home. His tiny emission clung to his body before snaking down the drain. Ethan shivered, a ridge of goose bumps appearing on his arms. He rinsed his body one more time and turned off the tap. Then he quickly got dressed and went to eat breakfast.
It was a rare treat to be home alone. Ethan made himself a huge bowl of cereal, staring at milk being absorbed into the grains. Sometimes the finality of things struck him, like the sadness of mixing Weetabix and milk. They could never be unmixedâeven if Ethan had a centrifuge and separated the milk particles from the cereal particles, he still couldnât undo how theyâd changed. Other things like this made him sad too: breaking eggs, mixing a cake, untwisting the cap of a new bottle of Coke. None of those things could be undone. He ate his breakfast in front of the television.
After morning talk shows replaced morning cartoons, Ethan wandered into his mumâs bedroom. He loved the smell of her bed. White sheets steeped in her scentâflowery perfume, laundry powder, the nutty smell of her shampoo. Her smell attached itself to everything in their home. Being in her bed reminded Ethan of having nightmares, waking up terrified, and creeping into her room. Sheâd hold him, stroke his hair, promise that there were no monsters under his bed; she was the only person who knew how to make his heart beat normally again. Sometimes Ethan snuck into her bedroom, rested his head on the cool cotton pillow and inhaled her smell. It made him feel safe. He lay under her blankets, watching the day change from the other side of the curtain.
Outside, people walked past, cars started and stopped; the postman who listened to Radio National made his rounds. Next door, the little kids played in their front yard. It sounded like they were having a tea party. The rhythm of daily life lulled Ethan back to sleep.
He was woken abruptly by a loud knock at the front door. Ethan wasnât allowed to answer the door when he was home alone. He sat up in the bed and pretended he was a statue. Mumâs bedroom overlooked the street, but with the curtain drawn Ethan couldnât see who was there. Another knock. Someone stood outside at the window. The silhouette of a tall man.
The man paced the front of the house and Ethan tried to quiet his breathing. Maybe the man was planning a robbery. Ethan quickly listed the places he could hide: under the bed, inside the wardrobe, in the triangle of space behind the door. All the good
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