His parents used to be early risers. He couldn’t imagine they weren’t up yet since it was now late morning. Maybe his mother was in the kitchen at the back of the house doing her “wifely duties.”
He could knock, but…
Fuck it.
He jogged down the porch steps and rounded the house to the backyard.
And immediately froze in his tracks.
Nothing had changed. Not a damn thing.
It was just how he remembered it in the days before he rushed out the back door for the last time and into the night.
Just how he remembered it all those times his father dragged him out into the backyard to punish him for whatever wrongdoing Michael did that day. Whatever rule he broke. Whatever transgression he committed.
In an attempt to “cleanse” Michael of his sins.
Bed sheets hanging from the clothesline fluttered in the morning spring breeze. But it wasn’t hearing the snap of the damp cotton in that gentle wind that made his heart pound in his throat.
It was the white wood posts buried into the ground with the cotton rope tightly stretched between them.
The eyebolt was still there. Toward the top of one of the posts. It was now rusty from either time or lack of use. Or both.
He turned slowly and spotted the witch-hazel shrub. Of course, it was now overgrown since no one had to cut any of the branches any longer. Or at least, not as often.
With his chest tight and his jaw set, his vision narrowed to the point of only a pin prick as he stared at that fucking bush. His memories started to rush in and take him back.
To a place he didn’t want to go. To a time he didn’t want to revisit.
This was why he shouldn’t have come home. To avoid reliving all that he left behind. He should’ve known coming back would be like picking off the scab of his childhood and making it bleed all over again.
He had so many memories of this backyard. Not one of them good. Not of him playing catch or having fun by running through sprinklers. Not of playing hide-and-seek or being pushed high into the sky on a swing.
None of that.
Instead, they consisted of that damn bush, of that wood post and of the knife his father would hand to him. Every time he was handed that sharp blade, he would stare at it and consider using it on his father, or on himself, instead.
He never did.
Because he was weak.
Those were the rare instances where, to lessen the damage, he did what he was told. In truth, he had no choice. If he didn’t follow his father’s orders, things would only be a lot worse. The punishment, his anger, his degrading words.
The only good that came out of it was if his father was busy with Michael that meant he wasn’t focusing on Sarah. At least, for a little while.
“The longer you wait, the more I will add to the number. You must learn to be obedient, Michael. When I give you an order, I expect you to do what you’re told without hesitation. You have always been an obstinate child, no matter how many times I’ve tried to rid you of that behavior.”
Words like that would snap him out of his head and he’d force his feet to move toward the shrub his father called the “switch bush.”
Part of Michael’s punishment was he’d be forced to cut his own switch and strip the leaves from the stick in preparation. From past experience, he knew the thinner branches cut deeper. They hurt less in the beginning but more later on because they split the skin. The thicker ones hurt more in the beginning and less later on. They usually didn’t split the skin but left welts and bruises behind.
He had to decide which of the two he wanted to deal with.
When Michael was done, he would be forced to say, “Thank you, Father,” with his gaze tipped to the ground as he handed over his carefully chosen switch.
Rev hadn’t realized his feet had moved him closer to the shrub and he now stood in front of it. He ran his fingers lightly over the yellow, orange and red spidery blooms.
Yeah, the shrub was much fuller and healthier now that it wasn’t constantly being stripped.
The colorful plant wasn’t the only thing in the backyard that had been stripped.
Once Michael handed over the instrument of his punishment to his punisher, he was forced to strip down to his boxer shorts. No matter what the weather.
That night—the night his father came home from work after his mother found him in Sarah’s bed—it had gotten dark early and the temps had dropped to barely above freezing.
When his arms were bound over his head and attached to that eyebolt, when he was only wearing his loose cotton boxers, he began to shiver. He had to be careful he didn’t accidentally bite his tongue from his teeth clattering violently together or from clenching them every time his father raised his arm and dropped it again, causing a searing burn along his skin from the long, thin switch.
Once it started, Michael always lost count. There was no point in counting anyway. It was over when it was over and not a second before.
He never made excuses, as that only added to the number.
He never begged to be spared, as that only added to the number.
He never cried or whimpered, as that only added to the number.
It was best to simply think of something else. Anything but what was happening.
When it was over, when he was released and given permission to move, he had to thank his father again. Even if the words were forced through tightly clenched teeth and a whole lot of hatred.
Even though his breath was hard to catch due to the pain.
As always, his father asked, “Have you learned your lesson?”
As always, Michael answered, “Yes.”
And, as always, that was a lie.
“Your mother has drawn your bath.”
The bath.
“It’ll help finish the cleansing.”
He wanted to argue that she had forced him to bathe early that morning, to scrub his skin clean with the harsh brush. But this bath was different.
Salt was added to the cold water.
The only good part about those baths was when he was done soaking in it, he could hardly feel the pain anymore since he was so numb.
At least for a little while…
Rev struggled to pull in his next breath, to shake that memory and the rest of them.
By reliving them, he was handing control over his life back to his father. Michael had stolen that control the night he ran away. He took it and ran as fast and as far as he could.
He never regretted leaving and the struggles to survive that followed. He only regretted leaving Sarah behind.
In truth, he deserved to be tied to that post again and whipped with a switch until nothing but bloody strips of flesh remained of his back.
Because he failed her.
He ran because he was too weak to stay.
But now, he was no longer weak.
His father was.
Rev forced himself to climb the two steps to the small back porch. He forced his fingers to wrap around the metal knob. He forced himself to turn it.
Both surprise and unease filled him as the door opened without resistance.
Did his mother believe that if she locked the front door he wouldn’t go around to the back?
Was she foolish enough to think he would simply go away? Leave them in peace?
He didn’t give a fuck about their peace, only his own. Only Saylor’s.
And they wouldn’t achieve theirs until he knew with certainty his father was gone. Then that peace would finally be within reach. Wouldn’t it?