The Little Boy
It was neither night or day. It made no difference anyway.
The little boy was shivering with cold in the hut. Partly musty, partly airless and all darkness, the old ramshackle hut had been his friend and quart for an unknown, timeless period. It was the only thing he was not scared of.
The floor was hard and it only increased the pain in his lintel's boy's buttocks should he move a little or budge a little. The pain never seemed to subside. His stomach was crunched in, half in hunger, half in utter fear at the thought of the next time his father would return and ...
Though the little boy could not see in the pitch blackness of the stone cold hut, he knew where the door was as he knew it was impenetrable, double-locked on the outside. Freedom and blue skies were just out there, he knew, so near and yet so very, very far. He was a caged bird, only seeing light when his master wished him to. For what was light, a mere and tiny shaft of light, in this dark, musty prison ? It was not hope. It was not freedom. It was nothing.
A pain numbed his body, the little boy's mind started to drift and flutter in bitter-sweet reminiscence. A black and white recollection, like ash-coloured photographs captured and trapped in time. He remembered the time when his mother was still alive. When warmth emanated from her body. He was nourished by love then, though guarded and sparse as his father would not bear the sound of laughter or worse, hugs and kisses and tight embraces. Crouching in a foetal position, the little boy thought that his father must have loved his mother once. If not, why did he marry her ?
But like a flashing spear of lightning tearing apart his heart, the little boy remembered an instant later how his mother's face would turn to a paler shade of white when his father brought back strange men visitors, "Uncles" that he would also meet and be nastily acquainted with later. However, it was scary enough to know at that time, after hearing his mother crying in the bedroom with one or more of those "Uncles", that he would find her on the bed later, much later as he crept on so quietly into the small black room, shedding tears and evil-looking blood, both streaming from her hastily reworn clothes, mingling and forming a wicked insigna on the bedsheets before seeping into the mattress. The mattress though old and lice-ridden, was sturdy and even now, was locked up in a cupboard in the dark hut, waiting to be used...later. His mother, however, didn't last that long.
Oh yes, the little boy remembered that, very painfully and very vividly. Not so much as when he had to start mourning, as when his own unpredictable nightmare began.
His mind returned temporarily to the present, drawn by scuttling noises. It was rats (large ones that bit painfully, he knew) scurrying across the hard, cold floor of the dirty hut. He could smell them. Someone was coming, he thought. The rats always knew. They probably couldn't stand the stench of humans, ironic in the same way the people despised the verminous bunch.
The little boy look the rats' side on this matter. Firstly, the rats were his only breathing company (though they bit painfully) throughout the false night of the prison hut. Furthermore, people in general (which would probably consist solely of his father and the "Uncles") weren't particularly kind. In fact, they bit much harder than the rats.
The little boy shivered even more, so hard his eyes jiggled in their sockets, remembering when his father would bring back those "Uncles" back to the house after his mother's death.
How they smiled their evil grins, those quick black wolves. Their lips were smiling but their eyes were not instead they were filled with lust and perverse images. Soon, he was forced to "entertain" them, to comply with their inhuman needs. "Be a good boy", his father said and do as you are told. Though he knew what he was told to do was wrong, very wrong and he hated it, he hated himself, but what could he do ? What could a little boy do ?
Worse things would follow. Indescribable and wicked acts that should never, never be done upon innocent souls. He hurt, inside and outside, as waves of red, hot pain washed over him; mind, body and soul; every time the "Uncle came for a "visit". Pain so intense, the little boy would often pass out.
The little boy was now awakened from his unhealing stupor by the creaking noise of the heavy door opening. Pure, unfettered light rushed in, blinding his fearful eyes. When he regained his sight, the first thing he saw was his father's face, hard and cold like the hut, eyes filled with evil and greed. And wickedness twisted into his smile.
The little boy knew he was in Hell, chained in purgatory forever. For the face he saw no longer belonged to his father, and acrid desert devoid of kindness and humanity.
He saw the Devil.
MYF
The little boy was shivering with cold in the hut. Partly musty, partly airless and all darkness, the old ramshackle hut had been his friend and quart for an unknown, timeless period. It was the only thing he was not scared of.
The floor was hard and it only increased the pain in his lintel's boy's buttocks should he move a little or budge a little. The pain never seemed to subside. His stomach was crunched in, half in hunger, half in utter fear at the thought of the next time his father would return and ...
Though the little boy could not see in the pitch blackness of the stone cold hut, he knew where the door was as he knew it was impenetrable, double-locked on the outside. Freedom and blue skies were just out there, he knew, so near and yet so very, very far. He was a caged bird, only seeing light when his master wished him to. For what was light, a mere and tiny shaft of light, in this dark, musty prison ? It was not hope. It was not freedom. It was nothing.
A pain numbed his body, the little boy's mind started to drift and flutter in bitter-sweet reminiscence. A black and white recollection, like ash-coloured photographs captured and trapped in time. He remembered the time when his mother was still alive. When warmth emanated from her body. He was nourished by love then, though guarded and sparse as his father would not bear the sound of laughter or worse, hugs and kisses and tight embraces. Crouching in a foetal position, the little boy thought that his father must have loved his mother once. If not, why did he marry her ?
But like a flashing spear of lightning tearing apart his heart, the little boy remembered an instant later how his mother's face would turn to a paler shade of white when his father brought back strange men visitors, "Uncles" that he would also meet and be nastily acquainted with later. However, it was scary enough to know at that time, after hearing his mother crying in the bedroom with one or more of those "Uncles", that he would find her on the bed later, much later as he crept on so quietly into the small black room, shedding tears and evil-looking blood, both streaming from her hastily reworn clothes, mingling and forming a wicked insigna on the bedsheets before seeping into the mattress. The mattress though old and lice-ridden, was sturdy and even now, was locked up in a cupboard in the dark hut, waiting to be used...later. His mother, however, didn't last that long.
Oh yes, the little boy remembered that, very painfully and very vividly. Not so much as when he had to start mourning, as when his own unpredictable nightmare began.
His mind returned temporarily to the present, drawn by scuttling noises. It was rats (large ones that bit painfully, he knew) scurrying across the hard, cold floor of the dirty hut. He could smell them. Someone was coming, he thought. The rats always knew. They probably couldn't stand the stench of humans, ironic in the same way the people despised the verminous bunch.
The little boy look the rats' side on this matter. Firstly, the rats were his only breathing company (though they bit painfully) throughout the false night of the prison hut. Furthermore, people in general (which would probably consist solely of his father and the "Uncles") weren't particularly kind. In fact, they bit much harder than the rats.
The little boy shivered even more, so hard his eyes jiggled in their sockets, remembering when his father would bring back those "Uncles" back to the house after his mother's death.
How they smiled their evil grins, those quick black wolves. Their lips were smiling but their eyes were not instead they were filled with lust and perverse images. Soon, he was forced to "entertain" them, to comply with their inhuman needs. "Be a good boy", his father said and do as you are told. Though he knew what he was told to do was wrong, very wrong and he hated it, he hated himself, but what could he do ? What could a little boy do ?
Worse things would follow. Indescribable and wicked acts that should never, never be done upon innocent souls. He hurt, inside and outside, as waves of red, hot pain washed over him; mind, body and soul; every time the "Uncle came for a "visit". Pain so intense, the little boy would often pass out.
The little boy was now awakened from his unhealing stupor by the creaking noise of the heavy door opening. Pure, unfettered light rushed in, blinding his fearful eyes. When he regained his sight, the first thing he saw was his father's face, hard and cold like the hut, eyes filled with evil and greed. And wickedness twisted into his smile.
The little boy knew he was in Hell, chained in purgatory forever. For the face he saw no longer belonged to his father, and acrid desert devoid of kindness and humanity.
He saw the Devil.
MYF
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