When You Wake up and Scream
Chapter Nine.
Conán froze as he heard his mother's shriek from behind him.
"You little brat!"
The fist had caught him on the back of the head and sent him flying forwards into the dirty floor, where he lay cowering, waiting for the blows that were surely going to come down on him at any second.
His mother slammed the fridge door, which had been open, back closed and then turned to her terrified son, standing with her hands on her hips as the ten-year-old looked up at her with huge brown eyes. He knew better than to try to get up. She had taught him well.
"Well?" she asked him. "Are you going to be honest with me, or are you gong to feed me with more of your atrocious lies?"
"Ma, I'm sorry, I am –"
"What are you sorry for, you little brat?"
"Because –" Conán broke off, looking away. She stepped over to him and pressed the heel of her shoe onto his hand. Conán nearly whimpered, but he bit his lip just in time.
"Because why?" she asked him sweetly.
"Because I'm filthy." Conán replied, trotting out the lines as he had done all of his life.
"And why are you filthy?"
"Because I sin."
"And where will you go when you die?"
"To Hell."
"Exactly. So you admit that you're a filthy sinner, do you? And what have you done just now to make you realise that?" She stood hard on his hand and Conán yelped before he could stop himself. His reward was a kick to the face, causing his nose to begin bleeding badly. He fought his instincts and managed not to grab it.
"I –"
"SPIT IT OUT AND TELL ME!"
"I stole from the fridge! I did it! I'm sorry! I just wanted some food! You haven't fed me in days and I can't take it anymore!"
"So it's food you want, eh? Is water not good enough for you? Does that not fill you up enough?"
"I –"
"Ungrateful brat!" She kicked him again and Conán scrambled away from her as he feet continued to make contact with him wherever they could. She kicked him into the corner and stood over him, her eyes glinting viciously. "You want something to fill your stomach, eh? You think you can help yourself to my food? You think after everything I already do for you, keeping you in this house when I rightly have no responsibility for you, as you're a filthy little bastard, you can steal from me as well? Well, I'll give you something to fill your stomach, eh?"
Conán whimpered fearfully in the corner as she stalked away. He was visited by a mad urge to dive for the back door, but where would he go then? He was too little and too skinny to pull himself over the back wall to freedom. She would catch up with him by then, and then he would be a goner.
He looked up at her as she approached him again. She was holding a large white bottle, and Conán was confused. He had expected her to come back with something disgusting she had found in the garden to make him eat, as she usually did. This time, however, Conán could see that the drugs had already taken hold of her, and he knew now that he was in serious trouble. He never knew what she was going to do in one of these moods – she was even more violent and completely unpredictable.
"You want something to fill you up?" she asked, swaying slightly. "Well, here you go, then!"
Conán didn't have time to react. Before he could do anything, she had grabbed him by the hair and stuck the bottle into his mouth. It was rammed so far down his throat that he had no choice but to swallow, and she grinned triumphantly when she saw this.
Conán didn't realise what it was at first, but he soon realised with a jolt of terror so strong that he began coughing and choking, made all the worse by the bleach that was searing his throat. He coughed even more violently and his mother grinned as he began to visibly panic.
Conán knew he was going to die. He couldn't die – he wouldn't let her kill him! He kicked out at her and caught her hard in the stomach, causing her to reel away from him. She was furious, but he didn't care. He scrambled to his feet but the effects of what she had done to him were already kicking in, and he had only just got to his feet, still coughing violently and feeling the bleach in his throat and nose, when he suddenly keeled over and collapsed to the floor.
"Kicking your own mother, you little brat?" she yelled at him, as he lay on the ground, beginning to fall unconscious. She kicked him in the side of the head. Conán, with the last of his strength, grabbed her foot as she did so and pulled it as hard as he could, causing her to nearly topple to the ground. She was livid, but Conán lost consciousness before he could feel the effects of her anger.
He was convinced. He was about to see Hell.
Conán was gripping the kitchen counter as hard as he could, his knuckles white. He was breathing heavily, forcing himself to calm down. He remembered it all too clearly. Waking up afterwards had been worse. He had been beaten black and blue, and as he had come to his senses the bleach took its toll on him. He had thrown up blood all night and knew that he was lucky to be alive, although at that moment, of course, he had wished he hadn't been alive.
No, he thought to himself, forcing himself to open his eyes. Don't let that old bitch scare you anymore!
He hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs, still shaking and feeling sick. He could still feel the horrible burning sensation in the back of his throat as he had been forced to swallow the bleach, still feel the unbearable pain in his nose and in the back of his eyes as he had tried to cough it up, and he could still remember lying on the kitchen floor puking up blood for hours and believing that he was surely going to die because of the agony ripping through his stomach. He had survived, though, and he still didn't quite know how.
He paused at his mother's room, but this room was empty. The wallpaper was still stained, just as it always had been, but apart from that there was nothing to suggest that anyone had ever lived there. Conán went up towards the bathroom, and he went in this time. The bathroom was the only place in the house that his mother hadn't inflicted anything too serious upon him. He still had bad memories, usually of her scrubbing him with a rough object when she was convinced he was the devil child and because it was generally where he had been dumped when he had been injured, but the bathroom had been his sanctuary. Compared to some of the other things that had gone on in the house, the bathroom had always been pretty safe.
Without knowing really what he was doing, Conán climbed into the bathtub. He rested his head against the cracked wall and put his feet up by the taps, closing his eyes and thinking back to the days where he had no escape. He enjoyed lying in the bath and knowing he was safe, and the silence of his old house was now comforting. He knew his mother wouldn't be barging into the room, ready to inflict some sort of pain on him … he was safe for now …
"You little brat!"
The fist had caught him on the back of the head and sent him flying forwards into the dirty floor, where he lay cowering, waiting for the blows that were surely going to come down on him at any second.
His mother slammed the fridge door, which had been open, back closed and then turned to her terrified son, standing with her hands on her hips as the ten-year-old looked up at her with huge brown eyes. He knew better than to try to get up. She had taught him well.
"Well?" she asked him. "Are you going to be honest with me, or are you gong to feed me with more of your atrocious lies?"
"Ma, I'm sorry, I am –"
"What are you sorry for, you little brat?"
"Because –" Conán broke off, looking away. She stepped over to him and pressed the heel of her shoe onto his hand. Conán nearly whimpered, but he bit his lip just in time.
"Because why?" she asked him sweetly.
"Because I'm filthy." Conán replied, trotting out the lines as he had done all of his life.
"And why are you filthy?"
"Because I sin."
"And where will you go when you die?"
"To Hell."
"Exactly. So you admit that you're a filthy sinner, do you? And what have you done just now to make you realise that?" She stood hard on his hand and Conán yelped before he could stop himself. His reward was a kick to the face, causing his nose to begin bleeding badly. He fought his instincts and managed not to grab it.
"I –"
"SPIT IT OUT AND TELL ME!"
"I stole from the fridge! I did it! I'm sorry! I just wanted some food! You haven't fed me in days and I can't take it anymore!"
"So it's food you want, eh? Is water not good enough for you? Does that not fill you up enough?"
"I –"
"Ungrateful brat!" She kicked him again and Conán scrambled away from her as he feet continued to make contact with him wherever they could. She kicked him into the corner and stood over him, her eyes glinting viciously. "You want something to fill your stomach, eh? You think you can help yourself to my food? You think after everything I already do for you, keeping you in this house when I rightly have no responsibility for you, as you're a filthy little bastard, you can steal from me as well? Well, I'll give you something to fill your stomach, eh?"
Conán whimpered fearfully in the corner as she stalked away. He was visited by a mad urge to dive for the back door, but where would he go then? He was too little and too skinny to pull himself over the back wall to freedom. She would catch up with him by then, and then he would be a goner.
He looked up at her as she approached him again. She was holding a large white bottle, and Conán was confused. He had expected her to come back with something disgusting she had found in the garden to make him eat, as she usually did. This time, however, Conán could see that the drugs had already taken hold of her, and he knew now that he was in serious trouble. He never knew what she was going to do in one of these moods – she was even more violent and completely unpredictable.
"You want something to fill you up?" she asked, swaying slightly. "Well, here you go, then!"
Conán didn't have time to react. Before he could do anything, she had grabbed him by the hair and stuck the bottle into his mouth. It was rammed so far down his throat that he had no choice but to swallow, and she grinned triumphantly when she saw this.
Conán didn't realise what it was at first, but he soon realised with a jolt of terror so strong that he began coughing and choking, made all the worse by the bleach that was searing his throat. He coughed even more violently and his mother grinned as he began to visibly panic.
Conán knew he was going to die. He couldn't die – he wouldn't let her kill him! He kicked out at her and caught her hard in the stomach, causing her to reel away from him. She was furious, but he didn't care. He scrambled to his feet but the effects of what she had done to him were already kicking in, and he had only just got to his feet, still coughing violently and feeling the bleach in his throat and nose, when he suddenly keeled over and collapsed to the floor.
"Kicking your own mother, you little brat?" she yelled at him, as he lay on the ground, beginning to fall unconscious. She kicked him in the side of the head. Conán, with the last of his strength, grabbed her foot as she did so and pulled it as hard as he could, causing her to nearly topple to the ground. She was livid, but Conán lost consciousness before he could feel the effects of her anger.
He was convinced. He was about to see Hell.
Conán was gripping the kitchen counter as hard as he could, his knuckles white. He was breathing heavily, forcing himself to calm down. He remembered it all too clearly. Waking up afterwards had been worse. He had been beaten black and blue, and as he had come to his senses the bleach took its toll on him. He had thrown up blood all night and knew that he was lucky to be alive, although at that moment, of course, he had wished he hadn't been alive.
No, he thought to himself, forcing himself to open his eyes. Don't let that old bitch scare you anymore!
He hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs, still shaking and feeling sick. He could still feel the horrible burning sensation in the back of his throat as he had been forced to swallow the bleach, still feel the unbearable pain in his nose and in the back of his eyes as he had tried to cough it up, and he could still remember lying on the kitchen floor puking up blood for hours and believing that he was surely going to die because of the agony ripping through his stomach. He had survived, though, and he still didn't quite know how.
He paused at his mother's room, but this room was empty. The wallpaper was still stained, just as it always had been, but apart from that there was nothing to suggest that anyone had ever lived there. Conán went up towards the bathroom, and he went in this time. The bathroom was the only place in the house that his mother hadn't inflicted anything too serious upon him. He still had bad memories, usually of her scrubbing him with a rough object when she was convinced he was the devil child and because it was generally where he had been dumped when he had been injured, but the bathroom had been his sanctuary. Compared to some of the other things that had gone on in the house, the bathroom had always been pretty safe.
Without knowing really what he was doing, Conán climbed into the bathtub. He rested his head against the cracked wall and put his feet up by the taps, closing his eyes and thinking back to the days where he had no escape. He enjoyed lying in the bath and knowing he was safe, and the silence of his old house was now comforting. He knew his mother wouldn't be barging into the room, ready to inflict some sort of pain on him … he was safe for now …