was always the answer, as if my body simply shutdown when ill.
I awoke to the sound of the front door being hammered on. How long had the banging been ringing through my house? I had no idea.
I jumped up, catching a look in the mirror as I passed. Shock! I was wearing the same jumper from the night before. A large bloody handprint slapped on my chest. I stared not believing as the banging continued. I pulled it off, throwing it into the bedrooms corner, and ran down the stairs two at a time. My mind still confused from just waking from a deep sleep.
I stood before the banging door, taking beep breathes to come to my senses. I ran my fingers through my hair and down my face, realizing I hadn’t shaved in days. “Later,” I mumbled.
I slowly turned the handle.
“What the fuck took you so long? What were you doing, wanking or something…? Jackass!” the annoyed high-pitched nasal voice said.
I looked down into the glassy, bulging bloodshot eyes of an angry nine-year old boy, who stood on my doorstep in his rumpled pyjamas.
5
Child’s Play
I stood agape as the youngster walked past heading for the chair. He looked like any child I had ever seen. He was wearing Transformer pyjamas – Bumblebee splashed across the front – with oversized Homer Simpson slippers on. Of course I didn’t have to look outside; I knew there would be no scuffed footprints.
His limbs were slightly too thin for a child of nine, and he seemed slightly emaciated. His hair was all unruly, as if just having been awoken from a deep troubled sleep. But what was most unsettling was the marks around his thin, once fragile, neck.
First I thought it looked like a rope had been wrapped around, possibly from when he tried to jump to his death from the banisters. I heard even young children tried to end their lives these days. That’s the twenty-first century for you. Some would call it progress, a people so well-educated that they can decide their life isn’t worth living even from an early age. Or it could have been pressure from bullies at school. Children can be so simple and yet so cruel at the same time.
But as I closed the door and moved closer I noticed it didn’t look like a rope ligature – not that I’m an expert – rather, it looked like he had been choked to death, so violently it had split the skin asunder.
He sat in the chair, legs tucked up, but I don’t think they would reach the floor even if he hung them over the chairs edge. His head didn’t quite reach the top of the high leather seat.
Like the other two, he was also smoking. I noticed for the first time the red and white packet of Marlboros just visible though the thin material of his pyjamas top pocket. I always wondered why pyjamas had pockets on the chest. Now I know.
His small eyebrows were drawn together, scolding me.
“What the fuck took you so long? I stood out there for ten minutes.”
First I was shocked at hearing such a small child using profanity twice in a matter of a few minutes. I don’t know why it upset me so, knowing that it wasn’t really a small child sat before me, just an empty shell occupied by something else. I now realized that he used certain characteristics of the person he took. Like some sort of residue leftover from them. Their draining life force? I had no idea.
“Don’t swear.” I found myself saying.
I knew children were terrible for swearing. My own two nieces, who are eight and twelve, swore like state-troopers. Supposedly picking it up from school – my older sister said. Even though she swore at them constantly, never once thinking it was because of her they spoke that way.
Instantly I was rewarded by his evil Cheshire cat grin. Suddenly his expression changed to an innocent look, making his face appear almost angelic. His head lowered, hands held together, he started muttering with the cigarette still in his mouth, “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in
I awoke to the sound of the front door being hammered on. How long had the banging been ringing through my house? I had no idea.
I jumped up, catching a look in the mirror as I passed. Shock! I was wearing the same jumper from the night before. A large bloody handprint slapped on my chest. I stared not believing as the banging continued. I pulled it off, throwing it into the bedrooms corner, and ran down the stairs two at a time. My mind still confused from just waking from a deep sleep.
I stood before the banging door, taking beep breathes to come to my senses. I ran my fingers through my hair and down my face, realizing I hadn’t shaved in days. “Later,” I mumbled.
I slowly turned the handle.
“What the fuck took you so long? What were you doing, wanking or something…? Jackass!” the annoyed high-pitched nasal voice said.
I looked down into the glassy, bulging bloodshot eyes of an angry nine-year old boy, who stood on my doorstep in his rumpled pyjamas.
5
Child’s Play
I stood agape as the youngster walked past heading for the chair. He looked like any child I had ever seen. He was wearing Transformer pyjamas – Bumblebee splashed across the front – with oversized Homer Simpson slippers on. Of course I didn’t have to look outside; I knew there would be no scuffed footprints.
His limbs were slightly too thin for a child of nine, and he seemed slightly emaciated. His hair was all unruly, as if just having been awoken from a deep troubled sleep. But what was most unsettling was the marks around his thin, once fragile, neck.
First I thought it looked like a rope had been wrapped around, possibly from when he tried to jump to his death from the banisters. I heard even young children tried to end their lives these days. That’s the twenty-first century for you. Some would call it progress, a people so well-educated that they can decide their life isn’t worth living even from an early age. Or it could have been pressure from bullies at school. Children can be so simple and yet so cruel at the same time.
But as I closed the door and moved closer I noticed it didn’t look like a rope ligature – not that I’m an expert – rather, it looked like he had been choked to death, so violently it had split the skin asunder.
He sat in the chair, legs tucked up, but I don’t think they would reach the floor even if he hung them over the chairs edge. His head didn’t quite reach the top of the high leather seat.
Like the other two, he was also smoking. I noticed for the first time the red and white packet of Marlboros just visible though the thin material of his pyjamas top pocket. I always wondered why pyjamas had pockets on the chest. Now I know.
His small eyebrows were drawn together, scolding me.
“What the fuck took you so long? I stood out there for ten minutes.”
First I was shocked at hearing such a small child using profanity twice in a matter of a few minutes. I don’t know why it upset me so, knowing that it wasn’t really a small child sat before me, just an empty shell occupied by something else. I now realized that he used certain characteristics of the person he took. Like some sort of residue leftover from them. Their draining life force? I had no idea.
“Don’t swear.” I found myself saying.
I knew children were terrible for swearing. My own two nieces, who are eight and twelve, swore like state-troopers. Supposedly picking it up from school – my older sister said. Even though she swore at them constantly, never once thinking it was because of her they spoke that way.
Instantly I was rewarded by his evil Cheshire cat grin. Suddenly his expression changed to an innocent look, making his face appear almost angelic. His head lowered, hands held together, he started muttering with the cigarette still in his mouth, “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in
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