Hot Spring

Part 9

The light above the dinner table was too bright. It was so bright, Mike felt it illuminated every corner, every inch of the kitchen, so that he couldn't hide from their eyes. They were both staring at him – well, glaring was more like it. He felt like he was under a microscope. Like he was so small, so tiny that they could crush him under their feet at any time if he didn't watch himself.
Mike was nine years old, and he didn't want to eat his mashed potatoes. Mommy always made them too lumpy, and they were quite disgusting. She was usually satisfied with him eating only a few forkfuls, but not tonight.
Tonight her boyfriend Stanley was here, and Mommy seemed to want to show him what a good disciplinarian she was.
"You're going to eat those, you little bastard," she said, her words cutting into him like a knife. "This is the last fucking time I'm going to put up with this. Why can't you just eat what I give you? You're lucky to get three meals a day, you know. Home-cooked meals, that I slave over the stove making for you!" Her last few words were shouted, and Mike couldn't help it. The tears fell down his face, into his place, making the potatoes even more of a soppy mess than they already were.
"Stop snivelling, you little runt," she said, and slapped him on the side of his head.
"Ow!" he said, rubbing the spot. She slapped his hand away.
"What did I tell you? Eat them!"
He shook his head.
"You heard your mother!" Stanley yelled, pacing back and forth in front of the table, arms crossed.
Mike lifted his head, stared pointedly at Stanley, and shook his head.
Stanley came up behind him and shoved his head into the plate.
Mashed potatoes filled Mike's nostrils and mouth, but he couldn't lift his head because Stanley kept holding it there. He couldn't breathe.
Finally Stanley released his hold, and the boy lifted his head up slowly, not wanting to provoke them further. He used his finger to dig the potatoes out of his nose and off his face.
"Eat them," his mother continued, and Mike's eyes widened. He'd thought the ordeal was over.
They wouldn't let him leave the table until every last bite was eaten, even though the potatoes were mixed with his snot and tears. He gagged a few times, but managed to keep the food down somehow.
The ordeal would have been much, much worse had he vomited, he knew.
Stanley moved in the following weekend, planning to marry his mother over the summer. Mike stayed as quiet as possible and out of their way, since they seemed to see his presence as an annoyance to their newfound 'love'.
He became Stanley's punching bag, literally, but the man would only punch him in places where the bruises wouldn't show, like in the stomach. Mike knew no one would believe him or care, anyway, if he told anyone about the abuse, because Stanley was a well-respected businessman in town who owned land and had invested in several major companies. These companies provided jobs in a town where work was hard to come by.
They were married in July, and over the next year the abuse became worse, his mother turning a blind eye to the cruelty his stepfather was inflicting on him. When he'd done something particularly bad, like spilling paint all over the floor by accident one day, his stepfather would bring him into the shed for a "session". The session consisted of Mike standing against the counter of the shed, shirt off, while Stanley whipped him with his belt. The physical pain was not as bad as the shame and powerlessness Mike felt afterwards. One day, the boy thought, I'm gonna run away. I'm gonna go live with my dad, up north. Dad won't believe what I've been though. He'd probably kill Stanley, and Mommy, if he knew.

The rain was falling steadily now, a cold rain, and the girls trudged on, Mike following behind with the shotgun. Every now and then a streak of lightning brightened the sky, and a low rumble of thunder followed soon after.
"We have to step it up, girls," Mike called from behind them. "It looks like quite the storm is coming."
Jessica looked up at the darkening sky, blinking against the rain.
"Jess," Jana breathed, stopping to touch a darkening spot on Jessica's right leg. She'd been noticing Jessica struggling to walk, but hadn't asked her about it yet.
"Yeah, he bandaged it up, but I guess the blood is going through." Jana looked questioningly at her friend.
"He threw a knife in me," Jessica said, stopping to turn around and glare at Mike.
Mike stopped. "Are we really going to do this now?" he asked.
"Well, how do you expect me to walk, for like, miles?" Jessica asked. "I don't think you thought this one out well, Mike."
"Be grateful you're still alive. Keep walking," he said, pushing the front of the shotgun into her back.
Jessica rolled her eyes and started walking again.
They were all thoroughly drenched when a dark outline of buildings appeared ahead.
"We're here!" Mike said. "Straight ahead. Up the stairs."
They entered the largest of a group of five cabins that were built in a semi-circle around an outside hearth, where it looked like animals were roasted regularly on a spit. Bones were scattered around the hearth, and women stepped carefully over them.
"Some kind of weird hunters' retreat?" Jana asked, and Mike just grunted.
"Yeah. Something like that."
They entered the cabin, and looked at the spectacle around them. Furs lined the walls, having been hung up to dry, and a stuffed bear and moose head were mounted on the walls. Jessica entered the next room and shrieked when she saw a bobcat snarling at her, back arched, until she realized it was stuffed.
"Why are we here?" Jana asked, imagining her and Jessica's heads mounted on the walls. She shuddered.
He didn't reply, but led them to a small room in the back, where a large bathtub on lion foot paws stood in the corner. Plastic bottles of unidentified liquid lined shelves that were built into the walls.
"Kneel down, your backs to me," he said.
"Oh, no..." Jessica moaned, realizing he was about to shoot them execution-style.
"Do it," he said, pointing the shotgun at her head.
"You don't have to do this, Mike," Jana said calmly. "I can tell you don't really want to kill us. Talk to us. Tell us what is going on with you. We're interested. We'll understand. I'm studying psychology, you know. This stuff is like a drug to me. Talk to me, Mike..."
He shook his head vigorously, a strange, intense emotion overtaking him, as though she'd stuck a dagger into his heart.
"Shut up," he said, but he couldn't look at her. She'd unbalanced him somehow, and he couldn't think straight.
"Mike, just tell us what's going on..."