a random story i wrote...
It just came out of nowhere.
Mother's Love
His mother had always hit him in the middle of his back, right between his lungs; an open-handed hit that mimicked a congratulatory pat, if not for the force and intent behind it. She’d done it ever since he was little to draw his attention to his disobedience and her displeasure at it. She never spanked his butt or smacked the tender skin of his arms or thighs, just that one particular spot on his back at the moment of disobedience or her discovery of it. She always hit hard enough to stall his breath and for the sound of the impact to echo in his ears. As he got older, the hits got harder as he got tougher and each hit would be accompanied by a hiss of his name. He remembered thinking once that he would have a permanent bruise or callous in that spot for the rest of his life, and that her hand had to be made of steel and righteousness.
When he was still in elementary school she would go on to reprimand him verbally as well, telling him exactly what she was displeased about, but as he got older that changed as well, his mother expecting him to know exactly what he had done wrong. Sometimes he did, and sometimes he had to guess or be forever clueless unless he asked, which he always did as indignantly as possible. She always told him, her eyes boring into his and her voice snapping at his ears. Sometimes he felt that her voice was more painful than her hand.
When he was in high school, and resenting her in teenage rebellion, he would imagine hitting her back. Several times he would raise his hand to do so and she would be watching him, waiting for him. He never did it, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he thought she was expecting him to so she could retaliate or if it was because of that indecipherable emotion on her face that wasn’t a challenge but a knowing. He can never imagine what she would have done if he really had hit her, but it gives him an uneasy feeling just imagining that he had.
The day he went away to college, as he was walking away from her to catch his plane--the warmth of her loving hug still lingering--he’d felt that smack, hard and rib-shaking against his back. He’d spun around, startled and indignant, gearing up to shout his indignity, only to meet her sadly smiling face. He’d silenced himself, confused.
“Be good,” she’s said, sad smile still in place, eyes slightly red and damp.
He hadn’t known how to respond. The words were simple, something she’d said thousands of times before, but the meaning behind the words had sounded so much deeper, as if he were supposed to take them and remember them for the rest of his life. So he’d nodded his head slowly and replied just as simply and just as deeply, “I will.”
It wasn’t until he was older and had a child of his own that he understood that her hand must have always ached after every hit.
--
crossposted to my GJ
Mother's Love
His mother had always hit him in the middle of his back, right between his lungs; an open-handed hit that mimicked a congratulatory pat, if not for the force and intent behind it. She’d done it ever since he was little to draw his attention to his disobedience and her displeasure at it. She never spanked his butt or smacked the tender skin of his arms or thighs, just that one particular spot on his back at the moment of disobedience or her discovery of it. She always hit hard enough to stall his breath and for the sound of the impact to echo in his ears. As he got older, the hits got harder as he got tougher and each hit would be accompanied by a hiss of his name. He remembered thinking once that he would have a permanent bruise or callous in that spot for the rest of his life, and that her hand had to be made of steel and righteousness.
When he was still in elementary school she would go on to reprimand him verbally as well, telling him exactly what she was displeased about, but as he got older that changed as well, his mother expecting him to know exactly what he had done wrong. Sometimes he did, and sometimes he had to guess or be forever clueless unless he asked, which he always did as indignantly as possible. She always told him, her eyes boring into his and her voice snapping at his ears. Sometimes he felt that her voice was more painful than her hand.
When he was in high school, and resenting her in teenage rebellion, he would imagine hitting her back. Several times he would raise his hand to do so and she would be watching him, waiting for him. He never did it, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he thought she was expecting him to so she could retaliate or if it was because of that indecipherable emotion on her face that wasn’t a challenge but a knowing. He can never imagine what she would have done if he really had hit her, but it gives him an uneasy feeling just imagining that he had.
The day he went away to college, as he was walking away from her to catch his plane--the warmth of her loving hug still lingering--he’d felt that smack, hard and rib-shaking against his back. He’d spun around, startled and indignant, gearing up to shout his indignity, only to meet her sadly smiling face. He’d silenced himself, confused.
“Be good,” she’s said, sad smile still in place, eyes slightly red and damp.
He hadn’t known how to respond. The words were simple, something she’d said thousands of times before, but the meaning behind the words had sounded so much deeper, as if he were supposed to take them and remember them for the rest of his life. So he’d nodded his head slowly and replied just as simply and just as deeply, “I will.”
It wasn’t until he was older and had a child of his own that he understood that her hand must have always ached after every hit.
--
crossposted to my GJ