She placed the empty bowl and spoon on his cluttered desk, gripped her smoke between her teeth and slid both arms underneath him.
Searing knives stabbed through the back of his thighs as his mother’s clumsy hands skimmed across his numerous burns. He bit his tongue to contain the scream.
She must have felt his body stiffen. “What’s wrong now ?” she said around the orange filter.
He shook his head.
“Honestly,” she said. “Sometimes I have no idea what’s going on with you.”
She picked him up off the bed and gently lowered him to his feet, moving her grip to his armpits. He hung suspended, a puppet on her strings.
“Good job you found that bucket,” she said, swinging him to and fro with each of her steps. With his ankles tied, he could but hop along with both feet, dependant on her to stay upright.
“Can I… Can I use the proper toilet yet?”
His mother laughed. “The proper toilet? In the bathroom? Come on, Wesley. How strong do you think I am? Think I could carry you all the way to the bathroom like this?”
You dragged me in here from downstairs easily enough, he thought.
For a second he strained against the tight coils of string about his wrists. “If you just—”
They stopped.
“If I just what?” she said.
What what what? his mind roared. Just what, Welsey? What what what?
What are you going to do now?
“If…you just took away this string, I could go to the toilet on my own. You wouldn’t have to carry me anywhere.”
His mother’s fingers tightened, digging into the sensitive skin under his arms.
He thought of Miss. Griffith, telling him that there was no such thing as a wrong answer providing you did your best to learn from it.
“That would really help me out, wouldn’t it, eh?” said his mother. “No more carrying you. No more helping you squat over that bucket, having to watch and listen and smell you shit and piss. A massive favour. How much of a favour when you’re scurrying around at night like one of the fucking mice? How much of a favour when everything ends up in one of your damn potions, eh Wesley?”
Even with his wrists lashed together, his right hand still managed to flap back and forth.
She laid him back on the bed face down, gentler than he expected.
“No, Mum. I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry!”
“I didn’t think we had to do this anymore,” she said, sounding full of regret.
Wesley thought of another old saying used by parents: This will hurt me more than it hurts you.
The last time he’d visited the doctor for his last batch of vaccinations, he’d fought, kicked and screamed. It had taken two assistant nurses to pin him down, allowing the doctor to slide that first needle into his arm. The same with the second. Things had changed come the third; his energy, and resilience, spent. He lay on the bed, crying while they stabbed.
The pain was telegraphed but not its location. That always broke through his mental readiness.
The back of his right leg, just above the knee hollow.
Wesley howled, gripping the blankets beneath him.
The cigarette didn’t burn, that came later as he lay crying in the dark, more it ate, a voracious worm burrowing into his quivering muscle. The stink from the bucket mingled with that of dry ash. His brain was tuned to one station and could barely contain the agony. He kicked, his body bucking on the mattress.
His mother held him down, leaning across the small of his back.
“I’m sorry!” he blasted again. “Sorry sorry sorry!”
Even after she stood and crossed the small bedroom to the open door, the dead cigarette in her hand, its phantom remained embedded in Wesley’s leg. His tears seeped and cascaded down his cheeks.
“Please, Mum!” he wailed. “Please!”
“Tomorrow,” she said, eyes downcast. “Christmas Day. You’d better get some sleep, Wesley.”
She clicked off the light, leaving him alone once more to enjoy the latest addition to his growing collection.
Extract from
Searing knives stabbed through the back of his thighs as his mother’s clumsy hands skimmed across his numerous burns. He bit his tongue to contain the scream.
She must have felt his body stiffen. “What’s wrong now ?” she said around the orange filter.
He shook his head.
“Honestly,” she said. “Sometimes I have no idea what’s going on with you.”
She picked him up off the bed and gently lowered him to his feet, moving her grip to his armpits. He hung suspended, a puppet on her strings.
“Good job you found that bucket,” she said, swinging him to and fro with each of her steps. With his ankles tied, he could but hop along with both feet, dependant on her to stay upright.
“Can I… Can I use the proper toilet yet?”
His mother laughed. “The proper toilet? In the bathroom? Come on, Wesley. How strong do you think I am? Think I could carry you all the way to the bathroom like this?”
You dragged me in here from downstairs easily enough, he thought.
For a second he strained against the tight coils of string about his wrists. “If you just—”
They stopped.
“If I just what?” she said.
What what what? his mind roared. Just what, Welsey? What what what?
What are you going to do now?
“If…you just took away this string, I could go to the toilet on my own. You wouldn’t have to carry me anywhere.”
His mother’s fingers tightened, digging into the sensitive skin under his arms.
He thought of Miss. Griffith, telling him that there was no such thing as a wrong answer providing you did your best to learn from it.
“That would really help me out, wouldn’t it, eh?” said his mother. “No more carrying you. No more helping you squat over that bucket, having to watch and listen and smell you shit and piss. A massive favour. How much of a favour when you’re scurrying around at night like one of the fucking mice? How much of a favour when everything ends up in one of your damn potions, eh Wesley?”
Even with his wrists lashed together, his right hand still managed to flap back and forth.
She laid him back on the bed face down, gentler than he expected.
“No, Mum. I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry!”
“I didn’t think we had to do this anymore,” she said, sounding full of regret.
Wesley thought of another old saying used by parents: This will hurt me more than it hurts you.
The last time he’d visited the doctor for his last batch of vaccinations, he’d fought, kicked and screamed. It had taken two assistant nurses to pin him down, allowing the doctor to slide that first needle into his arm. The same with the second. Things had changed come the third; his energy, and resilience, spent. He lay on the bed, crying while they stabbed.
The pain was telegraphed but not its location. That always broke through his mental readiness.
The back of his right leg, just above the knee hollow.
Wesley howled, gripping the blankets beneath him.
The cigarette didn’t burn, that came later as he lay crying in the dark, more it ate, a voracious worm burrowing into his quivering muscle. The stink from the bucket mingled with that of dry ash. His brain was tuned to one station and could barely contain the agony. He kicked, his body bucking on the mattress.
His mother held him down, leaning across the small of his back.
“I’m sorry!” he blasted again. “Sorry sorry sorry!”
Even after she stood and crossed the small bedroom to the open door, the dead cigarette in her hand, its phantom remained embedded in Wesley’s leg. His tears seeped and cascaded down his cheeks.
“Please, Mum!” he wailed. “Please!”
“Tomorrow,” she said, eyes downcast. “Christmas Day. You’d better get some sleep, Wesley.”
She clicked off the light, leaving him alone once more to enjoy the latest addition to his growing collection.
Extract from
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