The Right Way

A slow spreading red tinge replaced the tingling sensations from the back of my hand as my fingers yet again lay bruised and numb on the mahogany desk in front of me. My breaths were hitched as I attempted not to release the cry of pain that I felt bubble up my throat threatening to worsen my situation. Eyes prickling from keeping my tears under control, I struggled to comprehend why this was happening to me. What was wrong with me? But I must be strong, for crying always made it worse, I know that now. I also learnt not to protest, to just take my punishment without complaint. It was better than voicing my anger. I knew what he was doing was wrong, that there was nothing wrong with me. I hated him for what he was doing but I just had to endure through.

“Palms up.” He was just so calm about it all, as if hitting a child was a normal occurrence for the day. But I guess, for me it was. I bowed my head and silently, with trembling  hands, turned my palms upward. His heavy steps echoed through my ears as he paced in front of me, slowly dragging the cane along the edge of the surface, it had long ago become his weapon of choice. Rage was absent from his eyes but the steel determination was evident as he raised the cane, poised to strike.

“Father please, no more, I promise I’ll be better. Please, I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want to be different, please.” I could hear the shake in my own voice and  knew I lacked the conviction for him to believe me entirely.

His glacial blue eyes hardened as he watched his pitiful son beg for mercy, 

“William, you know why this must be done. God never intended this, it just simply is not the ‘right’ way.”

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Looking back now I couldn't blame my father for the way he treated me, to him, he was helping me. He believed without a single doubt in his mind he was doing what was ‘right’ in all senses of the word. I remember those times when I used to fear him, not comprehend that what I was, was unnatural, a queer creature that needed help. I looked down at my jagged letter m and cringed, awaiting his appraisal became more tense each time as I waited to see if I had improved enough for the day or if I needed more ‘rehabilitation’.

I watched him retrieve the cane from the drawer as an audible gulp descended through my core, sinking down just like my resolve to stay strong. His hard eyes blinked at me before softening for a moment. 

“That’s enough for today, go out and throw a ball with your brother.” His voice came out soft as a hint of a smile played at his lips.

Without hesitation I stood up and went to leave, pausing when I heard my name.

“And William, don’t forget to work on that weak arm.”

“Yes sir.”

With that I scurried out the door and made my way outside. 

It was the first time he had ever considered allowing me to go when we both knew my writing was far below acceptable. I think he knew that I had realised who I needed to be...

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I smiled at the thought of my father and his tolerance with me that day and how now my steady hand easily applied pressure to the parchment in front of me. With a strong stroke down I finished the last sentence, ‘I exchanged my woven silk pajamas for blue quartz’. The pen slid smoothly across the page, curving slightly inward to imply a natural and experienced hand. I had been practicing this sentence for the last six years, honing the way the letter r required more pressure on the downward and then a smaller amount on the arch.

Although I knew I must concentrate, my mind kept drifting to a time when I refused his tests, when I believed I didn’t need changing. We were taught that God loved all his children but did he somehow forget about me? I couldn’t change, no! Not even if I tried. This is who I was, there was no changing me. So what if I was different? Did that make me any less of a person?

“Yes, very nice William.” 

I returned from my reverie as father looked down appraising my work, relief sagging my shoulders with the weight of my success. 

Calmly, he poured water into two glasses, picking up his own and motioning to me for the other. I took a deep breath and raised my right arm, being fully aware that this was still a test. My right hand firmly gripped the glass and I brought the cool liquid up to my lips and inhaled the sweet nectar of my victory.

With a swift nod my father took a sip and put his glass down on the table and I did the same. I could see the proud look in his eyes but the apprehension was still visible. He still questioned himself; Was this enough? Will I be ok now? What if it comes back?

I looked up with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes trying to reassure him that I was cured. I knew now how wrong I was, back then I followed my instincts but they were wrong too. All the lashings and the constant repetition of meaningless sentences seemed trivial now. For now, I could try for sports, and sign my name on christmas cards, I could grow up normal in society without fret of being cast out. 

I was free.

I was normal.

I was right.