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Hands of Hurt
I know fear, stark staring fear, it's been with me most of my life; it's something close to my heart, something that defines me, without it I wouldn't be the same. Turning the key in the lock, I felt my mind beginning to race. It was under way – that feeling.
The interior was a picture of homeliness: indulgent bouquets of tiger lilies placed in each of the rooms; a diverse assortment of fruit in the dining-room table bowl; framed photographs of loved ones on every mantelpiece. Home-sweet-home. There was even a snap of me as a nipper, in the back garden, surrounded by those thorny blood-red roses. How fitting.
I needed to find somewhere to hide. The shadows beckoned me. The closet beneath the stairs was always the best place. I opened the small wooden door, crouched and stepped within. I love the still darkness of that confined space – brings back memories of my childhood, when I would lock myself in, taking cover from her nasty bony fingers: those unpredictable brutal hands that instilled so much fear into my young heart. Back then, the lightless closet was a place of solace, it’s where I learned about fear, about controlling it, about embracing it.
There was a sound. Someone was arriving home. I heard the jingle of keys and the clip-clop of stiletto heels. I could smell that familiar overbearing drift of perfume. It was her. My clammy palms slowly clenched into fists. My eyes narrowed. I licked my dry lips. The time was near. Through the crack of the closet door I watched her, moving with that elegant stride from the living-room to the kitchen and back again. She was humming that damned song, with its perfectly aloof and tragic melody: a love ballad about tenderness gone astray. I retreated into the darkness and silently pulled on my black leather gloves, securing them tightly one finger at a time. Next, I positioned the sad-clown's mask over my face – an old Christmas present from my beloved sister. Lastly, I reached to my side and unsheathed the blade that would free me from my violent past: it was my late father's hunting-knife, and it had been used to cut flesh and bone many times before. In the still darkness I sat, invoking fear, conjuring memories from my storybook of pain. The festering fire within me rose up, gathering second by second like an unstoppable disease. The time was near.
The bell of the microwave was my signal. As she walked out the living-room towards the kitchen I struck. Her carefree mind was hit by sudden and shocking force. I plunged her vicious heart into darkness, into the very black pools she had created within me. The little monster had returned in adult form to haunt her terrified eyes. “Welcome home, mother!” I sneered, towering over her pathetic, trembling body.
Should I disclose what unfolded on that dark winter's night? No. Some things are better left unsaid. Secrets should forever remain silent. But let it be known that her wicked hands of hurt will never damage me again. My fear is now dead. It's over. Buried. And in my pocket I have the proof: eight little harmless fingers – the trophies of my liberation.
I know fear, stark staring fear, it's been with me most of my life; it's something close to my heart, something that defines me, without it I wouldn't be the same. Turning the key in the lock, I felt my mind beginning to race. It was under way – that feeling.
The interior was a picture of homeliness: indulgent bouquets of tiger lilies placed in each of the rooms; a diverse assortment of fruit in the dining-room table bowl; framed photographs of loved ones on every mantelpiece. Home-sweet-home. There was even a snap of me as a nipper, in the back garden, surrounded by those thorny blood-red roses. How fitting.
I needed to find somewhere to hide. The shadows beckoned me. The closet beneath the stairs was always the best place. I opened the small wooden door, crouched and stepped within. I love the still darkness of that confined space – brings back memories of my childhood, when I would lock myself in, taking cover from her nasty bony fingers: those unpredictable brutal hands that instilled so much fear into my young heart. Back then, the lightless closet was a place of solace, it’s where I learned about fear, about controlling it, about embracing it.
There was a sound. Someone was arriving home. I heard the jingle of keys and the clip-clop of stiletto heels. I could smell that familiar overbearing drift of perfume. It was her. My clammy palms slowly clenched into fists. My eyes narrowed. I licked my dry lips. The time was near. Through the crack of the closet door I watched her, moving with that elegant stride from the living-room to the kitchen and back again. She was humming that damned song, with its perfectly aloof and tragic melody: a love ballad about tenderness gone astray. I retreated into the darkness and silently pulled on my black leather gloves, securing them tightly one finger at a time. Next, I positioned the sad-clown's mask over my face – an old Christmas present from my beloved sister. Lastly, I reached to my side and unsheathed the blade that would free me from my violent past: it was my late father's hunting-knife, and it had been used to cut flesh and bone many times before. In the still darkness I sat, invoking fear, conjuring memories from my storybook of pain. The festering fire within me rose up, gathering second by second like an unstoppable disease. The time was near.
The bell of the microwave was my signal. As she walked out the living-room towards the kitchen I struck. Her carefree mind was hit by sudden and shocking force. I plunged her vicious heart into darkness, into the very black pools she had created within me. The little monster had returned in adult form to haunt her terrified eyes. “Welcome home, mother!” I sneered, towering over her pathetic, trembling body.
Should I disclose what unfolded on that dark winter's night? No. Some things are better left unsaid. Secrets should forever remain silent. But let it be known that her wicked hands of hurt will never damage me again. My fear is now dead. It's over. Buried. And in my pocket I have the proof: eight little harmless fingers – the trophies of my liberation.
Gotta love the black gloves, and all the adventures they take us on.
Cheat!
:D
Still love this piece.
:D
Still love this piece.
That was brilliant. Really loved that.
Hands of Hurt
I know fear, stark staring fear, it's been with me most of my life; it's something close to my heart, something that defines me, without it I wouldn't be the same. Turning the key in the lock, I felt my mind beginning to race. It was under way – that feeling.
The interior was a picture of homeliness: indulgent bouquets of tiger lilies placed in each of the rooms; a diverse assortment of fruit in the dining-room table bowl; framed photographs of loved ones on every mantelpiece. Home-sweet-home. There was even a snap of me as a nipper, in the back garden, surrounded by those thorny blood-red roses. How fitting.
I needed to find somewhere to hide. The shadows beckoned me. The closet beneath the stairs was always the best place. I opened the small wooden door, crouched and stepped within. I love the still darkness of that confined space – brings back memories of my childhood, when I would lock myself in, taking cover from her nasty bony fingers: those unpredictable brutal hands that instilled so much fear into my young heart. Back then, the lightless closet was a place of solace, it’s where I learned about fear, about controlling it, about embracing it.
There was a sound. Someone was arriving home. I heard the jingle of keys and the clip-clop of stiletto heels. I could smell that familiar overbearing drift of perfume. It was her. My clammy palms slowly clenched into fists. My eyes narrowed. I licked my dry lips. The time was near. Through the crack of the closet door I watched her, moving with that elegant stride from the living-room to the kitchen and back again. She was humming that damned song, with its perfectly aloof and tragic melody: a love ballad about tenderness gone astray. I retreated into the darkness and silently pulled on my black leather gloves, securing them tightly one finger at a time. Next, I positioned the sad-clown's mask over my face – an old Christmas present from my beloved sister. Lastly, I reached to my side and unsheathed the blade that would free me from my violent past: it was my late father's hunting-knife, and it had been used to cut flesh and bone many times before. In the still darkness I sat, invoking fear, conjuring memories from my storybook of pain. The festering fire within me rose up, gathering second by second like an unstoppable disease. The time was near.
The bell of the microwave was my signal. As she walked out the living-room towards the kitchen I struck. Her carefree mind was hit by sudden and shocking force. I plunged her vicious heart into darkness, into the very black pools she had created within me. The little monster had returned in adult form to haunt her terrified eyes. “Welcome home, mother!” I sneered, towering over her pathetic, trembling body.
Should I disclose what unfolded on that dark winter's night? No. Some things are better left unsaid. Secrets should forever remain silent. But let it be known that her wicked hands of hurt will never damage me again. My fear is now dead. It's over. Buried. And in my pocket I have the proof: eight little harmless fingers – the trophies of my liberation.
I know fear, stark staring fear, it's been with me most of my life; it's something close to my heart, something that defines me, without it I wouldn't be the same. Turning the key in the lock, I felt my mind beginning to race. It was under way – that feeling.
The interior was a picture of homeliness: indulgent bouquets of tiger lilies placed in each of the rooms; a diverse assortment of fruit in the dining-room table bowl; framed photographs of loved ones on every mantelpiece. Home-sweet-home. There was even a snap of me as a nipper, in the back garden, surrounded by those thorny blood-red roses. How fitting.
I needed to find somewhere to hide. The shadows beckoned me. The closet beneath the stairs was always the best place. I opened the small wooden door, crouched and stepped within. I love the still darkness of that confined space – brings back memories of my childhood, when I would lock myself in, taking cover from her nasty bony fingers: those unpredictable brutal hands that instilled so much fear into my young heart. Back then, the lightless closet was a place of solace, it’s where I learned about fear, about controlling it, about embracing it.
There was a sound. Someone was arriving home. I heard the jingle of keys and the clip-clop of stiletto heels. I could smell that familiar overbearing drift of perfume. It was her. My clammy palms slowly clenched into fists. My eyes narrowed. I licked my dry lips. The time was near. Through the crack of the closet door I watched her, moving with that elegant stride from the living-room to the kitchen and back again. She was humming that damned song, with its perfectly aloof and tragic melody: a love ballad about tenderness gone astray. I retreated into the darkness and silently pulled on my black leather gloves, securing them tightly one finger at a time. Next, I positioned the sad-clown's mask over my face – an old Christmas present from my beloved sister. Lastly, I reached to my side and unsheathed the blade that would free me from my violent past: it was my late father's hunting-knife, and it had been used to cut flesh and bone many times before. In the still darkness I sat, invoking fear, conjuring memories from my storybook of pain. The festering fire within me rose up, gathering second by second like an unstoppable disease. The time was near.
The bell of the microwave was my signal. As she walked out the living-room towards the kitchen I struck. Her carefree mind was hit by sudden and shocking force. I plunged her vicious heart into darkness, into the very black pools she had created within me. The little monster had returned in adult form to haunt her terrified eyes. “Welcome home, mother!” I sneered, towering over her pathetic, trembling body.
Should I disclose what unfolded on that dark winter's night? No. Some things are better left unsaid. Secrets should forever remain silent. But let it be known that her wicked hands of hurt will never damage me again. My fear is now dead. It's over. Buried. And in my pocket I have the proof: eight little harmless fingers – the trophies of my liberation.