King of Swords

He could hear his heart pounding, and he was sure she could feel it too. His mouth dried up all the way down to his throat. And damn if his legs weren't trembling. His will to resist snapped. His bravado fled from his bones like a bird escaping out of an open cage.

'I _ I said _ I'm - I'm—'

'YOU WHAT?V 'I - I - I. ..'

'You dare raise your voice at me, boy! Who do you think you are?'

'I — I'm — I'm s-s-sorry,' he blurted.

'STRIP!' she snapped.

He did as he was told and took off his robe and dropped it on the floor.

She looked at it.

He picked it up and went over to the wall to hang it up, then padded back to where he'd been standing.

She looked him up and down, naked and shaking, her eyes stopping on his dick, now all shrivelled up. She came up close to him and grabbed him by the jaw, digging her nails deep into his cheeks, forcing his lips apart.

'Never raise your voice at me again, boy! You hear? Never!'

He tried to say yes, but her fingers had clamped his teeth so tight he was scared her nails would tear his skin. He tried to nod his assent, capitulation and surrender, but he couldn't move his head, so fast was her grip.

'You trying to be independent now, is that it, boy? Want to be a MAN7' she bellowed. 'You're not a man. You were NEVER a man!' She kept on burying her fingers into his skin, her face contorted, mad and merciless. Carmine was utterly terrified. He'd never seen her like this before. 'And you'll never BE a man. NEVER! You're WEAK! A WEAK PIECE OF SHIT like your coward FATHER!

'Now get on your knees,' she commanded, letting go of him.

'What?' He hadn't heard or understood.

'Get. On. Your. FUCKING KNEES!'

Carmine quickly did as he was told.

She kicked off her bathroom slippers and stepped around him. Behind him he heard her lockets bumping together, the chains scraping against them.

The first blow to his head was so hard it made everything inside it shake — his brains, eyes, teeth and tongue all shuddered.

She hit him even harder the second time. He cried 'Hit and snot flew out of his nose. She kept on whacking

the back and top of his head. She was using one of the slippers. They were rubber and plastic, but so solid and thick they might as well have been wood.

He didn't turn around.

She hit him again and again and again. A few stray shots struck his face and ears. A few blows landed on his neck and hurt like fuck, making him groan in agony.

The blows stung and burnt and bit and smarted. She was an accurate hitter too, got him in the exact same spot near the top of his head three times and made him yelp with each strike. Now he knew where he got his shooting skills from. He'd hoped it was from his dad. But they'd come from her.

His scalp felt scalded and raw. He wished he hadn't shaved off his hair. Then he understood the punishment.

She would have done this to him no matter what.

He didn't know how many times she beat him, but there was no let up and she didn't get tired. When one blow landed more softly than the last, the next was a hundred times harder.

After a while, his mind went blank. He focused on the door in front of him, the tiles in-between. He looked at his shadow. Eventually, he thought, this will stop.

It did occur to him, when she caught him right behind his ear and it hurt so much he thought she'd burned him, that he could always turn himself in to the cops. But he knew Solomon had his hooks all the way into their souls via their wallets. They'd cut him loose and he'd be the star attraction at the next SNBC. They wouldn't have to bother shaving his head.

The pain leaked through his cranium. His head began to hurt like he had an almighty hangover; pressure began to build up in his brow. Every blow made white stars explode in front of his eyes. His nose started to bleed. He couldn't even feel the blows any more.

Eventually he heard her drop the slipper on the floor.

'Now get in the fucking bath!'

He thought she'd have been spent from all that beating, but she scrubbed him harder than ever, really ripping chunks out of his back and legs. The bathwater even had a mild tinge of pink to it.

He stared at the wall of fish in front. That dumb beautiful shoal. They had it so damn easy, nothing better to do all day but swim, eat, look pretty and die.

He thought of his father and Lucita. They'd loved him, he knew, and he'd been happy then. Things would've turned out so differently if they were still alive. He wished he'd died with them that day.

He began to cry. Silently. He did that sometimes when his mother's humiliations got too much to bear, when she'd found a new soft spot to expose and mock, poke at and stab. His face was already wet so she wouldn't see the tears.

He thought of what had happened, his brief moment of rebellion, her retribution.

She was right. He wasn't a man.