Deamons

Chapeter 6 The Land of Mean Mothers part 2

That was not the case though. "Starke." Same simple word. Just a name but the quality of her voice spoke so much more, and there was a stillness in the air. Sometimes you can see the unseen by not seeing it but sensing what was around it. Something had changed. She called again and he was frozen with fear. He had to move though. If he did not move fast enough after she spoke it would bring a sting across his face from her hand. She enjoyed open palm slapping his face. She knew how to connect with the base of her palm to his cheek bone. When she did it felt like his face would shatter. He had not made it past two calls in a long time. He was surprised she was not screaming and barreling up the steps now. He does not know what to do. He left nothing out. He cleaned up his plate and left no crumbs on his little table. He learned to be invisible as possible. People praised him for his manners, his silence and the way he played with a toy then went and put it right back. He in fact wished he could be ghost and not be seen at all. That was his goal. Some kids wanted to be fireman he wanted to be a phantom and not feel.

He wiggled his fingers. That was the first thing he could begin to move. Then his arm ever so slightly. Finally, his whole body. Like cracks on thin lake ice he broke free from his stance making his way downstairs to answer her call.

She changed. He knew it. It was as real and hard as everything else in the house. She wore a happy hate across her face carelessly focusing on him. Again he was petrified like ancient wood.

She knew it. She felt his fear like a snake does when its prey releases certain pheromones in the air. With sickening hesitation, she waited for him to speak. "Yes mommy," he whispered. "The dishes Starke," she hissed. "I did them mommy." "My dishes Starke," she said and pointed to the big table. He went and grabbed them. They were a mess with smeared catsup everywhere. His fingers slid as he carried the plate. "Wash them," she demanded. His muscles locked up not knowing what to do. No one ever showed him how to wash dishes. What do you do he asked himself? Then she grabbed his mop of yellow hair and pushed his face across the plate as if it were a rag. "I said wash the dishes!" she screamed so loud it made him shake. He screamed inside his being. A wild cry for help. His face heated and he cried. "Nancy boy. Little sissy. Only sissies cry. Wash those dishes. Clean that table."

He turned to clean the table then she screamed again. "You don't touch that table until those dishes are spotless and I mean spotless!" "I,I,I, I don't know how to do it," his voice quivered. "Don't give me bullshit excuses. Bullshit excuses won't bring your mother back. You want your mother back don't you?" she asked. "Ye, yes," his voice still quivered, but he did not cry. She made it clear he was not to cry. Help me, he thought. He held that one clear thought before anyone taught him about pray or focusing or anything else. He managed instinctively to focus and ask within for help.

The gifts mustered up. They needed some energy. They somewhat wanted anger to storm in and lend a hand. Give them something to work against and get things moving but anger was nowhere to be found. They pulled together. Like acrobats standing balanced one on top of the other, most still barely formed not ready to work on their own. Then he found Courage and got moving despite the heat he could feel beaming down just at the back of his neck. His Strength kicked in and he was able to do work he had not done before. Diligence helped him work through his tasks despite his fear. She kept screaming and he jittered when she did forming cracks in his nerves that caused phantom pains in his body.

He worked hard for she demanded perfection. Finally, he was done and his work passed her inspection. It was then she knelt down and whispered which he found od because no one else was in the house. "You want your mom back, don't you?" He nodded affirmatively. "It's scary where she is too and the other mean mothers back there are just as nasty to her as I am to you. So, you better be good. The only thing that will drive me away is you being good. Do you understand?" He nodded the affirmative again. "Good now go upstairs." He did and as soon as he got to the top of the stairs a new fuller voice called out. "Starke honey. Take your bath and mommy will come up and read you a story before bed." This voice was to sweet. Artificial like saccharin. Then a shadow of a deamon came in. A shade of mistrust he knew life changed.