Rusty Nail

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THE SOUND BEGINS. Again.

Alex, eyes clenched shut, pillow pressed to face, can’t escape the repetitive slap-slap-slap; it penetrates the thin apartment walls and saturates the cotton batting.

The wailing starts, the cry of a sick dog, increasing as the slaps come louder and faster.

Father will call soon.

Alex rolls out of bed and tiptoes through the door, every painful squeak of the floorboards hitting like a blow. Slowly, so very slowly, Alex creeps down the hall.

Beyond Father’s room is the back door. If Alex can make it outside, there’s a chance. Perhaps spending the night in the barn, or at a friend’s house to escape the…

“ALEX!”

Alex jumps at the sound, Father’s voice drilling in and pinning feet to floor.

“Alex, get in here!”

No choice now. Run, and Father will hear and get angry. Alex doesn’t want to be the recipient of God’s penance.

The child heads back to Father’s room.

As always, the sight is ghastly. Father is kneeling on the floor, clad in dirty jeans and bare from the waist up. His back is glistening with sweat and something else; streaks of blood leaking from angry red welts.

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