None of that.
Instead, they consisted of that damn bush, of that wood post and of the knife his father would hand to him. Every time he was handed that sharp blade, he would stare at it and consider using it on his father, or on himself, instead.
He never did.
Because he was weak.
Those were the rare instances where, to lessen the damage, he did what he was told. In truth, he had no choice. If he didn’t follow his father’s orders, things would only be a lot worse. The punishment, his anger, his degrading words.
The only good that came out of it was if his father was busy with Michael that meant he wasn’t focusing on Sarah. At least, for a little while.
“The longer you wait, the more I will add to the number. You must learn to be obedient, Michael. When I give you an order, I expect you to do what you’re told without hesitation. You have always been an obstinate child, no matter how many times I’ve tried to rid you of that behavior.”
Words like that would snap him out of his head and he’d force his feet to move toward the shrub his father called the “switch bush.”
Part of Michael’s punishment was he’d be forced to cut his own switch and strip the leaves from the stick in preparation. From past experience, he knew the thinner branches cut deeper. They hurt less in the beginning but more later on because they split the skin. The thicker ones hurt more in the beginning and less later on. They usually didn’t split the skin but left welts and bruises behind.
He had to decide which of the two he wanted to deal with.
When Michael was done, he would be forced to say, “Thank you, Father,” with his gaze tipped to the ground as he handed over his carefully chosen switch.
Rev hadn’t realized his feet had moved him closer to the shrub and he now stood in front of it. He ran his fingers lightly over the yellow, orange and red spidery blooms.
Yeah, the shrub was much fuller and healthier now that it wasn’t constantly being stripped.
The colorful plant wasn’t the only thing in the backyard that had been stripped.
Once Michael handed over the instrument of his punishment to his punisher, he was forced to strip down to his boxer shorts. No matter what the weather.
That night—the night his father came home from work after his mother found him in Sarah’s bed—it had gotten dark early and the temps had dropped to barely above freezing.
When his arms were bound over his head and attached to that eyebolt, when he was only wearing his loose cotton boxers, he began to shiver. He had to be careful he didn’t accidentally bite his tongue from his teeth clattering violently together or from clenching them every time his father raised his arm and dropped it again, causing a searing burn along his skin from the long, thin switch.
Once it started, Michael always lost count. There was no point in counting anyway. It was over when it was over and not a second before.
He never made excuses, as that only added to the number.
He never begged to be spared, as that only added to the number.
He never cried or whimpered, as that only added to the number.
It was best to simply think of something else. Anything but what was happening.
When it was over, when he was released and given permission to move, he had to thank his father again. Even if the words were forced through tightly clenched teeth and a whole lot of hatred.
Even though his breath was hard to catch due to the pain.
As always, his father asked, “Have you learned your lesson?”
As always, Michael answered, “Yes.”
And, as always, that was a lie.
“Your mother has drawn your bath.”
The bath.
“It’ll help finish the cleansing.”
He wanted to argue that she had forced him to bathe early that morning, to scrub his skin clean with the harsh brush. But this bath was different.
Salt was added to the cold water.
The only good part about those baths was when he was done soaking in it, he could hardly feel the pain anymore since he was so numb.
At least for a little while…
Rev struggled to pull in his next breath, to shake that memory and the rest of them.
By reliving them, he was handing control over his life back to his father. Michael had stolen that control the night he ran away. He took it and ran as fast and as far as he could.
He never regretted leaving and the struggles to survive that followed. He only regretted leaving Sarah behind.
In truth, he deserved to be tied to that post again and whipped with a switch until nothing but bloody strips of flesh remained of his back.
Because he failed her.
He ran because he was too weak to stay.