Klempner – The Present
Mine…
My daughter…
Mitch’s daughter…
Alexanders’ words haunt me…
You locked her in the dark with the corpses of the murdered...
I try to escape into sleep…
… The stinking breath
The blood-shot eyes, wild with rage
The fist…
Da... No...
And a scream of anger. ‘Leave him alone you bastard! Don't you touch him! Don’t you dare touch
him…’
The smack of knuckles into flesh and another scream, now of pain…
‘Mommy! Don't hurt Mommy!’
The figure so tall…
The screams of pain becoming shrieks…
The smack of knuckles into flesh…
The little figure grabs for something… Anything…
… He swings the big metal stick with all his might, aiming for the ankles… ‘Stop hurting Mommy!’
A scream of rage and pain. ‘You little bastard!’
‘Run, Lamb, Hide!’
He bolts, dashing for the bedroom. His mother snatches up the golf club, then screams…
‘Bitch!’
She screams again, and again…
After a while, the door slams. It goes quiet…
Peeping out from under the bed, ‘Mommy?”
She staggers up, slamming the bolts on the door, top and bottom, then rushes across. ‘It’s alright,
Lamb. He’s gone now.’ Crouching down, she rocks him in her arms…
Sobbing, ‘You’re bleeding, Mommy…’
‘It’s nothing, Sweetie. Don’t worry.’
She wipes his face with the cloth, squeezing warm soapy water. ‘Is that better?’
‘A bit.’
‘Shhh... I know it hurts but let's have a sleep. We'll both feel better afterwards.’
‘Will you tell me a story?’
‘Of course I will.’ She’s talking all funny. ‘What story would you like?’
‘The one about the train to the zoo…’
Carefully, she lifts him into the bed then climbs in beside him. ‘Once upon a time, there was a little boy
called Larry....’ She speaks slowly, her voice going sort of blurry.
‘Mommy?’
‘I'm just a bit tired, Sweetie. I'm going to go to sleep now. You sleep too. It’ll be better in the morning.’
She pulls him close, humming as she strokes his hair. After a while, she stops humming and her hand
falls still.
*****
‘Mommy? I'm hungry. Is it time for breakfast?’ But she doesn't answer, doesn't open her eyes.
‘Mommy?’
…
…
*****
‘Deanna, open up!’ The door bangs. ‘Fucking well open up. I know you're in there. Your car’s at the
front. Open the fucking door!’
After a minute the door bangs again, heaves; bangs and heaves, the bolts straining on their screws
until, with a crash, it bursts open.
He steps in. ‘What the fuck?’ Fanning against a buzzing tide of bluebottles, he stares down at the
small, filthy figure on the floor.
The kitchen bin lies across the tiles, the contents scattered: wrappers licked clean, tins wiped, one
trailing what looks like dried blood.
The small boy has an open gash on one hand, swollen, the skin stretched shiny and weeping green.
‘Where is she? Where's your mother?’
The little boy drops his head, tears trickling. ‘I don’t like Mommy any more.’
‘What? What the fuck’s that that supposed to mean?’
‘Mommy went to sleep. She won't wake up and talk to me. I want her to tell me a story and she won’t.
And she's gone all black.’
The man gapes then charges around the apartment. As he pushes the bedroom door open, clouds of
flies swarm up and through and out.
‘Fuck!’ He turns, grabs the little boy and pushes him into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
‘You stay in there. Don't you fucking move from there.’
The little boy sits, hunching small, trembling, listening to the clatter and the cursing from beyond the
door.
The door slams open and the man marches in, reaching down to haul him up by the injured hand which
oozes, slick and stinking.
The little boy screams. ‘It hurts it hurts!’
‘Shut up! Shut the fuck up! We’re going…’
Out…
… Along a hall. Down the stairs. It smells nasty…
… and out of a door. It's dark and cold.
‘What about Mommy?’
‘She's gone.’
‘Gone? When’s she coming back?’
‘She's gone. She's not coming back.’
‘But...’
‘She's gone. She’s left. Don’t you get it you stupid little turd? She's sick of you. You said yourself she
didn't want to talk to you…’
He yells, ‘Mommeee....’ But she doesn’t come…
“Keep that fucking noise down!”
I slam awake, eyes wide into the dark. The peep-hole slaps open. “Shut the fuck up, Larry, or you'll be
on report.”
Streaming with sweat, I nod and the hole slides shut.
I'm stinking, chilled to the bone, shaking and my heart batters against my ribs.
What's happening to me?
Locked in the dark with the corpse of the murdered...
Your father was a monster, and he turned you into a monster...
Alone in the semi-dark, I tremble, wiping moisture from the corners of my eyes
The Story Continues In
‘The Loss Of Innocence’
*****
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