Weeping Willow (Spanking Story)

Chapter 4, Part 3: Owen's POV

It's weird how some memories work. Some are at your disposal, the nice ones. You can put them in and press play, and laugh at all the right moments even though you know they're happening. You can feel the wind blowing through your hair, feel the smooth sand between your fingertips, smell the candy cane and cinnamon and see the muted reds and oranges on the trees and hear that one song that always just did it for you. You've got an archive of those memories, nose squished against the glass of the jukebox as you try to find just the right one.

And then, there are other memories. There are those ones that hide in the corners of your mind, lurking along the walls and slinking around cobwebbed corners. They linger, never quite there but never quite gone. They're yelling and hurting and looking through the cracks of your fingers and not believing what you see. They're angry and wailing and black with sin. They have no sense of time, ring the doorbell when no one's home, call when you can't answer, make you shoulder their burdens when you can't even burden your own.

Those are the worst kind of memories. They're unexpected, heart-stopping, world-changing.

I blinked. Once, twice, three times. Looked over my shoulder and saw familiar buildings and trees and that one crack in the sidewalk kids on bikes always tumble over.

I hadn't teleported into hell. No, I was right here at home.

My parents were standing directly in front of me.

No, I was right here at home.

My parents were standing directly in front of me.

No, I was right here at home.

My parents were standing directly in front of me.

No, I was right here at home.

My parents—

"A-OK?"

No, everything was not okay.

"Look, kid. Do you have the fucking tickets or what?"

"I—" My tongue stuck in my throat like peanut butter to the roof of my mouth. I had the strange urge to vomit.

"Well?"

"You—" I tried again. "I—"

"I'm getting fucking tired of this! This is why I told you we shouldn't deal with highschoolers, Conner!"

"Kherrington," I finally blurted out. "My name is Owen Kherrington."

~*~

Memory 1: I'm huddled on the stairs. Harsh words echo off the walls and stab my eardrums and kick my heart. I'm small because my pyjamas still fit and baby Penny has been crying upstairs. This is my earliest memory of my parents. My eyes are wide but void of innocence and sometimes I wonder who stole it, and why they did so early.

Memory 2: Daddy hits me for the first time. Bruises aren't like cuts; they don't sting, but throb, deep and painful and reminding you constantly that they're there. Bruises can't be fixed, not even with Scooby Doo Band-Aids.

Memory 3: Ben leaves. Crosses the threshold and the last I see of him is the edge of his unkempt hair. He doesn't say goodbye but he doesn't have to. I have a feeling he isn't coming back.

Memory 4: I've stepped on a broken bottle, and my foot hurts. Dad tells me to man up and quit crying. "Crying gets you nowhere," he says. Penny gets it out with the rusty tweezers; I think she'd make a good nurse. She takes good care of people. And dolls. I like the way she brushes their hair.

Memory 5: The doorbell rings, and the man at the door has a suit without wrinkles and a face without wrinkles and a smile without wrinkles. Penny calls him "The Magic Man", but I don't like the way he scrunches his nose at our house. I like our house. It lets me live in it, and that calls for brownie points in my book.