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Backlash

TW: Corporal Punishment

By Phoebe Sunny ShengPublished 2 years ago 11 min read
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Backlash
Photo by Luis Villasmil on Unsplash

White-knuckled, Peter gripped the stair railing, stepping lightly so he wouldn’t wake his son. He couldn’t let George see his father, the man supposed to be his goddamn protector, quivering and shaking like a helpless little boy.

His bare, calloused feet shuffled across the wooden floorboards, then fuzzy brown carpet, then cold hard tile, until he quietly shut the bathroom door behind him. His trembling fingers brushed the switch and the dusty lamp in the ceiling flickered on. The bulb pierced into his eyes. He braced his hands on the edge of the sink, then shakily, painstakingly, rolled back his sleeves. His skin bore no trace of the red stripes lashed onto it a few minutes ago.

Mr. Dike sneered, exposing stained, yellowed incisors as he ensnared Peter’s wrists with brutish, hairy hands and dragged him under the red and white flag at the front of the classroom.

The belt cracked, drowning out his weak whimper as the first one hit. Four on the right arm. Then another four on the left, stinging and biting with each blow. Peter didn’t protest anymore. Searing spite boiled in the pit of his stomach. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of an apology -

Peter turned on the faucet. He splashed and scrubbed the icy water into his face. He ripped the towel off the nearby hanger and dried himself off, then he backed away, gasping for air. Slowly, gradually, he caught his breath. He pulled his sleeves down, silently reminding himself that it’d been years. Decades. He’d healed since then. Mr. Dike couldn’t touch him anymore. With each tiny piece of rationale, he pieced himself together. Then he opened the door and walked back into the inky, suffocating darkness of his house.

George’s black, coiled hair shone a speckled copper in the radiant sun. The ten-year-old’s backpack bounced as he skipped down the street. The bright orange, yellow, and scarlet maple leaves crackled under his shoes. Then he squatted to peer at the pale grey sidewalk. He reached out to gently pick up the tiny object, but then a tall, robust shadow fell over him.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked, his brow furrowed. George beamed at him. Peter recognized the round, ruby, spotted shell cupped in his palm.

“I found a ladybug!” A phantom of a smile tugged at Peter’s mouth, but then his expression hardened into a frown.

“Put it down,” he snapped. George’s face fell. He shrunk back, holding the insect a bit closer to him. Peter’s chest twinged, but he shoved it aside. “Don’t make me tell you twice.” George reluctantly crouched and laid the back of his hand on the grass so the ladybug could crawl off.

“Don’t do that.” Peter used a handkerchief to wipe his son’s hands. “You’ll look sloppy.” Peter yanked George to his side, keeping a firm hand on his shoulder so he couldn’t run too far ahead. George had a bad habit of running all over the place. If he couldn't settle down and sit still, then he would disturb the class.

The rectangular outline of the brick and cement school stood only a few blocks away. A white and crimson flag billowed in the cool fall breeze. Hundreds of other children and their families had already gathered on the freshly cut emerald lawn.

Peter stiffened as they approached the barbed wire fence. He hesitantly let go of George’s elbow. He stooped in front of him, dusting off and adjusting the fidgeting boy’s uniform.

“When you want to talk, raise your hand,” he said sternly. “Don’t speak unless the teacher lets you. Don’t run in the halls.” George shifted excitedly as Peter re-tied his shoelaces.

“I won’t.” Peter sighed wearily. He threw an arm around George and gave him a brief squeeze. The school bell rang, the shrill sound sending a shudder down Peter’s spine as he pushed George into the enthusiastically chattering crowd of new students and watched his son disappear into the colorful mass of backpacks.

“Don’t get in trouble,” he murmured.

September 9th, 1960.

Peter promised his mother not to get in trouble on his first day of school. It should’ve been simple enough to keep, if not for the fact that Peter didn’t know the exact definition of said trouble.

Peter found his gaze wandering towards a bird perched on a branch outside the window.

“Peter, when was the dominion of Canada officially born?” Mr. Dike asked.

Peter blinked, taken aback for a moment. His gaze darted towards the blackboard. Then back to the scowling teacher hunched under the red and white flag at the front of the classroom.

The freckled, redheaded boy in the seat next to him snickered loudly. The other students joined in. Peter shrunk in his chair.

“Can, can you repeat that, sir?”

“I’m not going to tell you again if you won’t pay attention.”

“Sir, I don’t know - “

“It’s not hard, you idiot.” Mr. Dike’s hooked nose wrinkled with annoyance. “Just answer the question!”

“I don’t know!” Peter yelled.

“Did you raise your voice at me, young man?”

“You did it first - “

The freckled boy laughed at the top of his lungs.

Peter thought he would have the last laugh if he got a punch in. He thought wrong. He thought so, so wrong.

Physical assault.

The frosty wind whipped through Peter’s hair, biting at his ears and nose, the oversized hood of his mother’s winter coat falling over half of his face. The snow crunched beneath his boots. His breath filtered out between his lips in white plumes as he ducked behind the barbed fence of the school, peeking through diamond-shaped wire holes. His backpack weighed on his shoulders.

Mr. Dike’s beaked silhouette stood beneath a tarnished metal flagpole. A string slid fluidly through their hands as he lowered the flowing piece of fabric. It flew half-mast, then drifted to the bottom of the concrete base. Then the lean, hawkish teacher trudged through the blizzard and ducked back into the building, their task completed.

Peter leaped to his feet, heaving himself over the fence. The barbed wire snagged onto his clothing, clawing into the fabric, holding him back. He ripped himself free and dashed over to the fallen flag. He set down his backpack. He fished out a pair of scissors from the front pocket. He cut the maple leaf in half; snipped those halves into ribbons; the ribbons into shreds.

The doors to the school burst open. Mr. Dike circled him, trapped him at the scene of his crime, shouting as he wrestled him to the ground. His beady stare glittered expectantly, waiting for Peter to throw himself down and grovel for forgiveness. Peter laughed wildly.

Destruction of property.

Mr. Dike didn’t have to drag him to the principal’s desk. Peter didn’t put up a fight. He’d already won. He’d shown the vulture. He’d gotten used to the pain. Mr. Dike couldn’t hurt him; couldn’t break him.

He thought he couldn’t break him.

The straps on his right arm didn’t end at four. Mr. Dike hit him six times. Eight times. Ten times. Peter’s wrist splintered on the twelfth. The shock only kept the agony at bay for a few seconds. Then it blazed through the swelling, mangled joint in one fell wave. His muscles and nerves seized up. He screamed, his throat hoarse, his pinned hand writhing on the desk. He cried out the five words Mr. Dike wanted to hear, the humiliation burning even more potent than the fracture.

“I won’t do it again,” Peter choked out.

Black and white dots danced in front of his vision, mixing with the harsh light from the ceiling.

Then it hit him, harder than the strap itself. He knew how to stay out of trouble now. He would sit still. He wouldn’t fight and he wouldn’t fight back. Maybe Mr. Dike had to break him; break him in whatever way he saw fit, so he could be remade properly. Remade into a better man.

After his wrist healed, it left no trace.

At least, not on the outside.

Peter impatiently tapped his foot on the grimy pavement, scanning the lines of students trickling out of the exit. Five minutes went by. Then ten. Then twenty. His eyebrows knitted deeply together.

George weakly pushed through the doors. His sneakers dragged against the sidewalk. His head hung low. Peter’s breath hitched. He sprinted to the young boy, steadying him.

“George, are you okay?” Peter lightly cradled George’s chin, turning him to look at him. The inside of Peter’s mouth dried instantly. He pulled George closer to him, his words softening slightly. “What happened?”

A red splotch marred his son’s forehead, just above his left brow. A few droplets of dried blood clung to his split bottom lip. He had a raw, fresh bruise on his jaw.

“I got into a fight,” George rasped.

“Who started it?” Peter’s tone roughened, trembling with fury. “What’s their name? We’re going to tell the principal about this. They won’t hurt you ever again -”

“I started it.”

Peter fell dead silent.

"You started it?" he repeated numbly. George couldn’t meet his eyes. Peter's hands slid off his son’s shoulders. He stood up, glaring coldly at the boy. George stretched out a hand, trying to hold onto the sleeve of his coat, but Peter batted him away. He swiveled around and stormed down the street. The soles of George's sneakers padded as he hurried after his father's heels.

"I told you," Peter jammed the key into the knob of their front door, "not to get in trouble." George stayed behind him on the porch. His child's silence only made Peter’s rage expand. It rose up within him like smoke, its bitterness coating his words as he spat them out. He threw his coat onto the nearest chair. "What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know," George mumbled. The rage spilled over the brim. Peter slammed a fist down on the kitchen table.

"What's wrong with you?" George flinched, withering in on himself as he clutched the straps of his backpack.

"I don't - "

"Shut up," Peter sneered. George winced as he jabbed a finger into his chest. "Shut the hell up, you know what you did, and I know what you did. I'm not an idiot."

"My ladybug," George blurted out. "I couldn't let them step on -"

The red stripes carved themselves into the skin on Peter's arms, snaking under his veins and knotting around the bones in his fingers and wrists. They puppeted him, undoing the belt around his waist. His sharp, strained breaths echoed in his skull as he dug his nails into George's sleeves and peeled them back.

The lights in the ceiling of the classroom blinded him, whiting out everything in the house as he lifted the belt over his head. He couldn't remake George into a better man if he didn't break him first. The strap cracked against the skin. One. Two. Three. He almost brought down the fourth. Then someone screamed.

"Don't hurt me!"

The stripes slithered away. The lights flickered out. Peter's windpipe opened, letting the air in. His vision cleared, revealing a little boy under his hawkish, vulture-like shadow. No, not just a little boy. His boy. His ten-year-old boy. His son.

George cowered in the corner, his back pinned to the wall, his battered face now ghostly. His spindly, frail limbs, now blotched with dark spots, curled in on themselves like the shell of an insect. Three tattered, crimson lashes glistened on his wrist.

The belt clattered out of Peter’s hand and onto the wooden planks on the floor. How could he let his son see him like that? The man who was supposed to be his goddamn protector, lashing him instead.

“George, look at me.” Peter could taste bile on his tongue. “I won’t do it again.” His voice broke. “I won’t do it again.” He slumped to his knees, trying to place a shivering hand on George’s shoulder, but his son shrunk away from him, and Peter knew that fracturing every bone in his body wouldn't hurt as much as the look on his quivering, shaking son’s visage.

After George’s wrist healed it would leave no trace.

At least, not on the outside.

References:

Cameron, M., & Voonasis, C. L. (2018). School discipline. In R. J. R. Levesque, Encyclopedia of adolescence (2nd ed.). Springer Science+Business Media. Credo Reference: http://ezproxy.lib.ucalgary.ca/login?url=https://search.credoreference.com/content/entry/sprgstv/school_discipline/0?institutionId=261

Child abuse. (2016). In J. L. Longe (Ed.), Gale Virtual Reference Library: The Gale encyclopedia of psychology (3rd ed.). Gale. Credo Reference: http://ezproxy.lib.ucalgary.ca/login?url=https://search.credoreference.com/content/entry/galegp/child_abuse/0?institutionId=261

Salzinger, S., Ward, A., & Feldman, R. S. (2018). Physical abuse. In R. J. R. Levesque, Encyclopedia of adolescence (2nd ed.). Springer Science+Business Media. Credo Reference: http://ezproxy.lib.ucalgary.ca/login?url=https://search.credoreference.com/content/entry/sprgstv/physical_abuse/0?institutionId=261

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About the Creator

Phoebe Sunny Sheng

I'm a mad scientist - I mean, teen film critic and author who enjoys experimenting with multiple genres. If a vial of villains, a pinch of psychology, and a sprinkle of social commentary sound like your cup of tea, give me a shot.

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