Matthew Twelve: Chapter Six

And this was the way of it for weeks, seemingly without end: his mother a silent figure withering from view, his father a towering bully; insignificant days passed at school followed by letters home that banked up along with persistent correspondence from the doctor's surgery.
The man never seemed any cleaner one day to the next, his grubby face haunted Matthew's mind and each time Matthew felt himself growl and shake with hot rage just as the dog did whenever it saw the man through the window or a gap in the door.
At night the man never seemed to sleep and paced the hall outside; Matthew couldn't imagine an end.  His mother was no use, but then she never had been; when he remembered back he always saw this, the figure of a woman silhouetted in a frame, immobile and dull of eye.  He remembered at first she had sought out help, but gradually this came to an end and the letters started to come.  It was as if the first ten years of his life were nothing.  A black memory.  There were photos of a boy in the house, but it wasn't him even though he had the same hair, the same looks.  The boy had a smile.
Two months passed by and on a Wednesday his teacher held him back, speaking to him clearly, calmly.  His voice was soothing and it chipped at Matthew's resolve, the teacher saw the edge of a tear, but nothing more.
Matthew missed the bus and his father's voice raked at the edges of his mind leaving cruel clefts of hatred there.  Matthew waited for the bus, but the time slowed and eased its way on, indifferent to the building sense of urgency in Matthew's bones.  His skin crackled and his brow seemed to fever, until the bus eventually drew alongside.  The dog was no where to be seen.
Matthew launched himself from the bus steps and hurled through the wood, his feet clawing at the ground faster and faster.
He broke through the tree line and on to the lawn where the man stood, a belt in his hand and the dog at his feet.

*

Matthew charged at his father, but the belt whipped out, the buckle catching his cheek, the shock made him miss a step and he tripped and fell.  His father's knee burrowed in to Matthew's back and the growl that broke forth was not his but his father's; hot saliva dripped against the sides of his now muddied face and the sneering, gruff animal voice of his father barked inside his mind tearing and biting at his senses.  In the black pitch of his soul Matthew rumbled with fear, hatred and his anger boiled, but he was powerless, pinned to the floor.  He gnashed and spat and bit at the soft earth until his father rolled him over, holding him firmly at the throat.  Matthew's eyes opened, blood red at the edges, he stared up at the man his mother had called his father and saw the man before him who now had a muzzle with brown and broken fangs that dripped with bitter white foam.
His father's voice crawled its way out of the animal's throat.  "Stay!"
All the fight disappeared.  Matthew lay there and watched as the man stepped back, picked up the belt and stepped over the dog, moving back to the house and disappearing into the shadowed hallway.
Finally Matthew rolled over and rested at the dog's side.
It wasn't cold, but it was dead.  The heat of its body was slowly drifting away.  Matthew's fingers froze aloft the brindled flank, the downy fur was matted and damp and at the dog's mouth a small amount of blood had clotted.
Matthew buried his dog in the woods, marking the spot with soft, sad tears.  The dog had felt like a gift, something he hadn't had in years.  In that moment he remembered his birthday, the last one his mother had been there for.  There was a cake, candles, presents and in that same moment of remembering he knew it was his birthday the following day.  He would be thirteen.
He turned back to the house, a sense of expectancy hanging on his shoulders.
The man followed Matthew to his room and shut the door.  From the other side he didn't see the smile on Matthew's face.  Now he knew, knew what the man was, knew what he was.
Sleep came quickly.  Too quickly.  His dreams were gone and he felt buried by blackness.  He didn't hear the handle to his mother's room turn, or her padding down the stairs.  He didn't feel the chill draught creep up from the open door, stealing the heat from her room.
The man slept too, an emptied tumbler of alcohol staining his trouser leg.
His mother disappeared in to the night air, following the path to the creek.