Neddy
Based on Neddy from the short story Prince Valiant by Owen Marshall
I always awoke whenever he started shouting at her, or whenever he hit her. The marks he left on her she always managed to cover up, hiding to try and keep the truth from me. She always said she loved him, and she would get that distant look in her eye, but she would not have that look when he hit her, I watched once, he made me watch so that I would learn not to cross him. Her cries as he struck her were horrifying, it was that day I chose not to speak unless spoken to. I didn’t want to witness her in that pain.
I stayed at home so I could help her get through the day. It was always the same day; wake up to her screams, wait until he stopped, get breakfast, school, avoid my parents and go to bed. It was the same old routine that we got used to. I loved her, I hated him. Sure I knew if I took a step out of line he would hit me, he often did but not once would I tell my mother if he hit me, I was scared for her. I always wanted her to be happy, I always hoped that maybe one day he would stop, the day I realised he wasn’t going to was the day he started using things to hurt her, Wether it was something as cold as night or something that was burning like the sun he would use it on her. Her arms, her legs, her stomach, her chest. They all bore the marks of torture because that was what it was.
At first I thought school would be the escape I so badly needed, but it became no such thing. I don’t know what was worse, the building that looked so much like a prison, it’s tree’s clawing at the brick. Or the students who could have been the inmates with their taunting and hate. I let them think that I was some freak from the farm land, they never had to know what I had seen, what I had been forced to watch, I could manage their anger, their hate and their mocking. But what I knew I couldn’t stand, I could never have taken their pity or their shock. I knew they wouldn’t understand what it was like, I knew I should have told someone, trusted someone, but there was never anyone who I could tell, it was always just me on my own.
It took me along time to realise that my escape would be simple, just somewhere to forget the laughter and mocking of my peers, somewhere to forget the agony of my home life, somewhere where I could forget her voice saying;
“Neddy, it will be ok” When I was driving away, with my music pumping I could forget for a while, remember what it was like to be Neddy and not have gone through all the pain and torment. The anger and suffering I had witnessed ran away with the night as it rushed past me, it all just went away.
I knew I shouldn’t leave my mum unprotected at home, but what else could I do, I didn’t know what else I could really do. I couldn’t fight him back, he’d whip me across the face with his hand, if I told him to stop he’d hurt her harder, she needed help, she needed to realise that it wasn’t natural what he was doing. He killed her. Every time he hit her I saw her heart break, again and again until there was nothing left but pieces which had shattered as her bones did. He knew he wanted her to be happy, he knew she could never be with him, so he told her that, and when she refused he did the only thing that made sense, he used his escape and his work to get away from it all.
I always awoke whenever he started shouting at her, or whenever he hit her. The marks he left on her she always managed to cover up, hiding to try and keep the truth from me. She always said she loved him, and she would get that distant look in her eye, but she would not have that look when he hit her, I watched once, he made me watch so that I would learn not to cross him. Her cries as he struck her were horrifying, it was that day I chose not to speak unless spoken to. I didn’t want to witness her in that pain.
I stayed at home so I could help her get through the day. It was always the same day; wake up to her screams, wait until he stopped, get breakfast, school, avoid my parents and go to bed. It was the same old routine that we got used to. I loved her, I hated him. Sure I knew if I took a step out of line he would hit me, he often did but not once would I tell my mother if he hit me, I was scared for her. I always wanted her to be happy, I always hoped that maybe one day he would stop, the day I realised he wasn’t going to was the day he started using things to hurt her, Wether it was something as cold as night or something that was burning like the sun he would use it on her. Her arms, her legs, her stomach, her chest. They all bore the marks of torture because that was what it was.
At first I thought school would be the escape I so badly needed, but it became no such thing. I don’t know what was worse, the building that looked so much like a prison, it’s tree’s clawing at the brick. Or the students who could have been the inmates with their taunting and hate. I let them think that I was some freak from the farm land, they never had to know what I had seen, what I had been forced to watch, I could manage their anger, their hate and their mocking. But what I knew I couldn’t stand, I could never have taken their pity or their shock. I knew they wouldn’t understand what it was like, I knew I should have told someone, trusted someone, but there was never anyone who I could tell, it was always just me on my own.
It took me along time to realise that my escape would be simple, just somewhere to forget the laughter and mocking of my peers, somewhere to forget the agony of my home life, somewhere where I could forget her voice saying;
“Neddy, it will be ok” When I was driving away, with my music pumping I could forget for a while, remember what it was like to be Neddy and not have gone through all the pain and torment. The anger and suffering I had witnessed ran away with the night as it rushed past me, it all just went away.
I knew I shouldn’t leave my mum unprotected at home, but what else could I do, I didn’t know what else I could really do. I couldn’t fight him back, he’d whip me across the face with his hand, if I told him to stop he’d hurt her harder, she needed help, she needed to realise that it wasn’t natural what he was doing. He killed her. Every time he hit her I saw her heart break, again and again until there was nothing left but pieces which had shattered as her bones did. He knew he wanted her to be happy, he knew she could never be with him, so he told her that, and when she refused he did the only thing that made sense, he used his escape and his work to get away from it all.