by neko

The door closed softly behind him.

Choir practice had run longer than expected and the late afternoon sunlight painted the front hall in warm pinks, shining off his platinum curls in pale, washed-out orange. In quiet alto tones, he called out a greeting to his mother.

"Allo, maman."

The silence which followed caused him to pause in removing his shoes, its complete absence of sound sinister and foreboding. He walked into the living room, bare feet silent on carpet.

"Loqui."

Loqui hesitated just inside the doorway. The dark haired man on the couch had spoken in a low, even voice, a gentle invitation which Loqui interpreted as a warning.

"Oui, Eric? Comment ça va?"

"Speak English, boy!" It was like a snap, an audible shift from the charming man Loqui's mother dated to the roaring monster Loqui had learned to fear.

"I'm sorry, I -"

"Shut up!" He stood, shoes connecting soundly with the floor. Loqui immediately and instinctively backed up, away from Eric's advancing figure. "You told her, didn't you? You little whore!"

"Eric, what -"

"Silence, I said! You always talk too much. You're always telling lies. Why must you always be so difficult?"

"But -"

The slap was unexpected but not surprising. It knocked his head back against the doorframe. "Ferme ta gueule!" The syllables came unnaturally in that Toronto-born accent, flat and foreign but still a threat. "You understand that, don't you, boy? Well, let me put it in words you'll understand. Tu n'es bon à rien, mon pède. Tu ne seras jamais qu'une petit pute, fesant le pipe." The second blow landed almost directly on top of the first, a sharp red against his pale cheekbone.

"You think yourself so high, with your perfect face and perfect body and perfect voice," and at this he delivered a solid punch to Loqui's torso, cracking a rib and sending the boy to the floor, "but you're a failure. You'll never be good enough." His foot connected with the same rib, precision contrasting with this sudden violence. He reached down and hauled the boy up again, hands around his throat.

Loqui stared wordlessly up at him, easily half again as tall and three times as strong. Any struggle would be futile and costly. The hands began to tighten.

"I never want to hear your pretty little voice again. Do you hear me? I never want to hear your lies again." His thumbs pressed brutally inward.

Loqui gasped for air a moment longer before the world went black.

He awoke in a pale room to the sound of his mother's quiet weeping. Neck stiff and protesting, he turned to look at her.

"Oh, mon chèr," she whispered, seeing him conscious. "Excusez-moi, excusez-moi. Je ne savais pas . . ." and she began to cry again, clear blue eyes closing in pain. He carefully turned his hand under hers, small fingers curling in comfort and reassurance around her own.

Some time later, she calmed down enough to tell him that Eric had been arrested but that no one knew why he had attacked Loqui. She had heard the shouting from next door, where she had been visiting the neighbours, and had called the police, and Loqui had been in the hospital with his mother at his side for a full day. She promised him that he could check out soon and that they would be moving almost immediately across the river to Ottawa, away from this place. With a sad half-smile, unsure of whether or not she should be happy, she explained that the doctors had discovered no permanent damage to his throat and that he would be able to talk again when he felt ready. As soon as they found a new church, he could join the choir in time for Christmas.

As she spoke, Loqui felt words slip away from him almost tangibly, silence gliding in easily to replace them. The idea of speech, of song, seemed strange to him now. This soundlessness comforted him, surrounded him, like a hymn in an empty cathedral, infinite and holy.

With his mother's help, he stood, then followed her out of the room.

The door closed softly behind him.