“How dare you lie to me?!” my mother snapped, raising her hand to strike me again, only to lower it at the last second. “You are going to clean this up right now!”
Tears rolled down my face freely as I glanced in between my mother and the drawing that was not mine. I had wanted to make her happy, but instead I had made everything worse.
“Stop crying!” She gripped my face in one hand, fingernails stabbing into my cheeks as she forced our eyes to meet. “Are you a baby? No, you’re not. Stop crying. Clean this up!”
Sadness twisted into anger, a howling beast with its teeth sinking into my thundering heart. It needed to be released, its heat burning through my veins.
My mother’s grip loosened, and without a word, I reached down to collect my crayons, throwing them against the wall with a cry of frustration.
I regretted it the moment the Devil’s laughter infiltrated my mind, sharp talons clawing at my skull.
“Mumma I’m sor—”
Her hand met my cheek, silencing my apology before it could leave my tongue. She dragged me out of the room with a bruising grip around my wrist. I screamed, I cried, I thrashed around wildly in an attempt to tear free. But it was no use. We reached the kitchen where she threw me to the tiled floor, the back of my head smacking against the drawers with a sickening crack.
Dazed, I watched my mother open and shut cupboard doors, muttering incoherently as she pulled out a bag of cable ties.
The Devil crouched beside me, his expression hidden behind blurred features.
Is that it?he asked with that same melodic voice he’d used when James attacked me.Is that all the fight left in you?
My mother hauled me to my feet, shoving me into the linen cupboard amongst towels, bed sheets and bathmats. She restrained my wrists together with a cable tie, its teeth biting into my skin.
There was barely enough space to breathe, yet alone stand, but the door clicked shut in my face before I could utter a word of complaint.
The walls were too close. Crushing me. Breath evaded my lungs. Panic spread. I tried to get out, but the scraping of a chair indicated I was enclosed in.
“Let me out!” I cried. “Mumma! Mumma! Let me out!”
“Not until you spend some time reflecting on your behaviour.”
“Mumma! Please! I’m sorry! Mumma!”
I sobbed. I sobbed until I exhausted myself, collapsing onto one of the shelves, curling into a small ball to fit amongst the sheets.
I don’t remember how long I was confined in that small cupboard for, but it felt like an eternity. And as I drifted off into a fitful sleep, a voice right next to my ear whispered,You deserve this.
CHAPTER FOUR
Summer leaves danced freely along the treetops, a barrage of green armour guarding us on our journey deep into the woods behind North Lane. Sunlight poured through the cracks in the armour, painting speckles of gold along the path toward the lake.
Ducks disappeared beneath the calm blue ripples, birds soaring from branch to branch as my mother guided Auden closer to the water's edge.
In nothing but a pair of swim shorts, I followed my father into the water, gliding past lily pads and tangled weeds until my feet no longer touched the bottom.
“Hey,” my father nudged me with a grin. “Race you to the island?”
The 'island' was a green mound in the centre of the lake, with two tall trees and long, untamed grass. It was about a thirty-metre swim, and when I attempted to race my father the previous summer, he had to carry me back when I swallowed too much water. But I was older this time. And more determined to prove my strength.
Returning a grin, I launched myself under water, my father granting me a ten second head start before he soared past, his long limbs disappearing in the dark depths.
My arms cut through the water, legs aching as I pushed through the exhaustion threatening to drown me. I gasped for air with every resurface, water splashing into my eyes as I watched my father reach the island with ease.
He was an excellent swimmer. Throughout his secondary schooling, he’d been captain of the swim team, winning gold medals in the one hundred metre freestyle sprint and the longer eight hundred metre butterfly. Olympic level, if he’d taken his training more seriously.
It was quite clear, even from a young age, that I did not inherit my father’s athleticism. I was not aterribleswimmer, but it was obvious I would never win a medal or compete in any national competitions. And although he never blamed or criticised me for my swimming failures, I could tell he was disappointed that he would not be able to fulfil his life-long dreams of being a professional swimmer through me. And I was disappointed too, for not being able to perfect the one thing my father and I could bond over.
By the time I made it to the island, panting and gasping for air, the sun had dried the wet droplets off his shoulders.
