Batter Up

Recollection 1 of 10

As the cloud of stale tobacco dispersed from the weathered pipe, gently pursed between Ragnar’s lips, Arlo’s eyes lock onto his vacant stare and instinctively look away again, focusing once more on the roof. Arlo’s heart quickened, he knew fine well what was coming but he couldn’t help his thoughts drifting away.

He caught the sight of a small spider web in the corner of the roof. A small fly struggled, trying to wriggle itself free from the unknown prison it found itself trapped in. Arlo wondered; does the fly know what lies in wait? Does it know that it is now at the mercy of the spider that created this contraption? Its instinct surely fill it with dread and panic that its little life is hanging in the balance and there is no way out of the hell it finds itself in.

Arlo’s focus snapped back into the room like a plate shattering on concrete, away from the comfort of his muddled mind. His heart raced once more, his eyes locked onto the imminent danger in the room. Ragnar. A shorter than average man, shaved head and a speckled ginger and grey beard with traces of nicotine stains throughout. Tattooed with a random array of old fading ink gathered over the course of 30 years or so, all clearly on show as he stood there with his top off. His large gut hanging over the waistband of a ‘tighter than should be’ pair of Wrangler jeans. The distinct smell coming from him, a mixed odor of sweat and pipe tobacco. Something Arlo didn’t actually mind oddly; it reminded him of the rare occasions with his ‘father’ when they cuddled up on the sofa watching anything on TV.

One tattoo in particular stood out on Ragnar’s collection, a portrait of a child’s face. It did not resemble Arlo or any of his brothers or sisters; it was a generic looking face and underneath it was his name along with those of his siblings. “ANSWER ME.” boomed the voice in a calm but assertive tone.

Again Arlo’s focus returned to the place he’d been avoiding, where wicked eyes peered from behind thick rimmed glasses, magnified by the lenses of degrading eyesight. The cold stare was fixed directly into the back of Arlo’s skull, reaping every ounce of fear he could from the 6 year old boy.

Arlo opened his mouth to talk but all that escaped was the invisible rock that had caught in the back of his throat since hearing those footsteps thud up the stairs adjacent to his bedroom. Knowing that it would only antagonize him further, Arlo blurted out in quick succession “Nn-n-n-noo Nooooo Noooo candy f-f-f ffor a mm-m-month”. The response was sheer agony to the child as his throat had seized up through all the sniveling and snot that had continually run down it. The words felt like glass tearing out his insides but at the same time brought relief that he would end this situation he too often found himself in.

Not 20 minutes previously, Arlo had been in the garden playing with his friend on their bikes. Hutton was a good kid, always up for adventure and stirring up a little trouble. Arlo’s sister however also liked Hutton. Always trying to get involved in anything the boys got upto, hoping to capture his attention.

The 2 boys created an old fashioned ramp with 2 bricks and a plank of wood, taking it in turns to cycle down the pathway and jump as far as they could. Pepper saw the perfect opportunity to try and get involved in the antics by lying across the path, behind the ramp. The boys not seeing any issue with this proceeded as normal to the top of the path to have another shot on the ramp. Arlo set off first, pedaled as fast as he could go hoping to get even further than before but as he got to the foot of the small ramp, his front wheel knocked the plank off the bricks and onto Pepper’s stomach, causing the bike to run over the top of his sister. Pepper let out an all-mighty shriek followed by sheer hysterics, tears streamed down her face as she ran to the front of the house to be met by their parents. His mother clutched Pepper tightly but his father’s eyes took one look at the scene and narrowed his vision like lightning to pick out Arlo at the bottom of the path. Arlo knew immediately that no matter what he said, no matter how hard he pleaded, the mist of fury that boiled in Ragnar’s eyes banished all forms of reprieve from the equation. All bar one.

Arlo bolted for the backdoor and made a beeline for his bedroom. Hutton knew the drill. He had seen this often enough to quietly slip away and head back home. Wait it out for a few days before risking chapping the door once again. Ragnar made his way to the front door. To the foot of the stairs leading up to Arlo’s bedroom. Into the room, where his child lay in wait of the judge, jury and executioner. Just like always.

Not many words passed between son and father, Ragnar and Arlo. It had gotten to the stage where 2 or 3 statements or trick questions were all that were needed.

Trick question one: “What do you want me to use?”.

In this instance Ragnar did not have immediate access to his arsenal. He was not wearing his chapped and rustic cowboy belt with the golden buckle depicting 4 cowboys sitting around a campfire. Arlo was pretty thankful of that. He was not wearing his tattered tartan slippers much to the dismay of Arlo. Those were usually ok, not too weighty but the rubber soles could sting. His infamous wooden paddle was still sitting above the fireplace downstairs so that only left his hand. It was a blessing in disguise. Sure, his hand was experienced and the sheer connection usually left a blistering pattern on the skin it violated but Ragnar could usually only manage one or two strikes before his own hand began to get sore and lessen the impact of his blows, unlike the slipper, belt or paddle. Those options were a sheer lottery in terms of blows.

The trick was that if you chose the slipper, Ragnar went for the paddle out of twisted knowledge that you chose the least pain afflicting artifact. If you chose the paddle, you got the paddle but with a little bit of respect. Arlo always felt that this option led to less power going into the blows. The clever move was to go middle of the road. Belt or hand. If you chose either of these, you were usually granted your wish.

However, this time around Ragnar made his way directly to Arlo’s toy box. Ragnar raked around for a few seconds before pulling out a 30 inch hollow plastic baseball bat that Arlo had gotten to play rounders only a few weeks previously. Ragnar had to have been toying with the idea of using it as a new means of punishment at some point since his hand was drawn to it like a magnet, gripping quickly and tightly like the bat belonged there.

Trick question two: “Do you want the bat or do you want to go without treats for a month?”.

Fast forward to the wrong answer.

Arlo knew it was the wrong answer. Given the choice of facing an excruciating experience or abstaining simple pleasures for 4 weeks. What would anyone choose. Regardless, Arlo had hoped just once this would pass unnoticed.

Statement 1: “Lay on your front, trousers and pants down. Now.”

Those words were non negotiable. Any fight, talk or tears merely brought about a sustained attack. Arlo had been here too many times before not to learn from his ingrained experience.

CRACK. Blow one came like a thunderbolt from Zeus himself, it stung beyond anything he had experienced before. Even worse than the time he fell into a wasps nest. CRACK came blow two in quick succession. The pain caused Arlo to shrill momentarily but he thrust his face into his bedding to muffle his anguish. Then nothing. Arlo held his cheeks that had taken a blazing, tightly hoping to put what felt like a fire out.

Reluctantly Arlo dropped his hands back to his side. He couldn’t hold back his tears any longer and sobbed into his duvet as his father rained down two more blows before dropping the bat and leaving the room, slamming the door on his way out.

Exhausted from the ordeal, Arlo cried himself to sleep. Enter night, exit light.

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