The door opens quietly. A beam of afternoon sunlight slats down along the pine floor, the slight figure edging in. On his toes, he creeps towards the stairs. Winces as the soles of his shoes squeak on the panels.
"Why so quiet, my boy?"
The youngster halts, first foot hanging an inch above the lowest step. "I'm going to do my homework, father." His hand curls around the bannister. The brass is cold against his palm. His knuckles white.
Father rises, journal folded in his hands. "That doesn't answer my question."
The boy freezes. Eyes find a spot on the carpet. "I...I am tired, father."
A snort. His father beckons. The boy turns, walks to him. Blue eyes stare at the floor, jaw clamped shut. "Turn your hand over, Wesley." The voice is strict. Hard. The boy does as he is told. Scarlet palms are revealed. "What's this?"
"Nothing, father."
A pause. "Are you lying to me, Wesley?" A silence. "What is this?"
"I was caned." Voice low, fearful. Eyes fill with tears he won't shed. Can't shed. Not in front of father. Not in front of anyone.
"What for?" There is no emotion in his voice. No anger. There never is any. Always complete calm. Terrifying calm.
Wesley swallows hard, lowers his hands. "One of the boys wanted to fight me." He replies, head bowed. "He hit me first. The teacher wanted to make an example of me."
"You were fighting?" The journal is lowered. His hand moves to the buckle of his belt, the motion not unnoticed by the boy. He shivers. The buckle is undone. Belt hisses as it is pulled from the loops of his trouser. "Tell me, my boy, why?"
A reluctant tear falls. "He hit me first, father." He protests. Instantly regrets it. The folded belt catches him across the rib cage. "I didn't want to fight!" Again, regrets it. Stifles a cry as another blow sets a black bruise over his previous ones.
"I have told you before and I'm sure I will have to tell you again," The father grabs the boy's wrist, steers him towards the table. "You are a disappointment, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. You are never going to be worthy of the destiny you must follow."
"Please, father..." He knows what is coming. Prays every night that it will never happen to him again. God never heeds his cries. Nor does his father.
His hands are spread on the surface of the table, forced to bend at the waist and wait. Wait for the punishment he knows won't be long in coming. Hopes, truly hopes that it will only be the leather. Not the metal. Not again.
"Please...please..." He whispers. Knows his pleas won't be heeded. "Please..." Its always the same. "Please..." Feels his uniform trousers around his ankles. His backside bared, he braces his hands, grits his teeth.
A whistle of motion.
Crack.
He screams.
Can't help it.
Can't hold it in.
His knees shake, his nails splinter. His breath escapes in a ragged gasp as he tries, desperately tries, to stop himself from falling. Falling only makes it worse, so much worse than it already is.
"How many should we have today, my boy?"
Rhetorical questions became part of this game the day that he stopped being locked beneath the stairs.
Now, he just wished for the stairs again. Since he was old enough to receive corporal punishment, his father had said, he was old enough to receive a more adult punishment when he misbehaved.
"You've been rather bad, my boy." Hears his father shift. The burning sting across his rear intensifies. Definitely the metal there. He can feel the blood welling already. Tears gather in his eyes. "You've been fighting. You talked back to me. You lied." He tutted. "And now, you're getting stains on your good trousers."
Voice shaking, the boy speaks. "I...I'm sorry..."
"You know how redundant that word is, my boy." Another shrill whistle, knee-jerking snap of leather on skin. A scream. Legs shake. Knuckles whiten.
The belt rises and falls with a steady rhythm. Pale skin reddens, blackens. Lines of blood emerge, beads of crimson rising.
"Keep counting, boy." His father grunts with exertion.
Tears fall freely. Cries have dwindled off to soft whimpers. "Eighteen..." His voice barely audible, shaking. "Nineteen..."
The final blow caught the back of the ten year old's thighs, just above the knee. His breath was expelled in a gust, his shoulders heaving.
Remaining upright as best he can, he keeps his head down, shivering. Hears his father slipping his belt back into place, buckling it carelessly. Waits until he sees the shape of his father resume his seat, unfold the journal, ignoring his son.
Shakily bending, he pulls his trousers over his agonised buttocks, he winces. Fastens them slowly, hands trembling. Retrieves his satchel, limps to the stairs, only to be halted by the voice that terrifies him more than anything.
"It's for your own good." Without the sincerity it should carry, the voice matches the cold eyes that glance briefly at him. Then return to the paper. Always the same. No emotion. No regret. No love.
Turning, the boy limps up the stairs, tears prickling his eyes. Entering his room, he shuts the door, turns and rests his forehead against the smooth wood. Burning tears break under closed lids, streak his cheeks.
He doesn't know if he should be safe or scared in the assurance that he is never going to be good enough.
Makes his way to his bed, curls on his side. The back of his body screams in protest, as he cries, cries in the one place he knows he is safe from his father. Clutching his ragged teddy bear to him, he weeps until there are no tears left.
At least, not until tomorrow.