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He stepped back out and closed the door behind him, then walked the few steps farther to his room. Again, the door was closed.
He held his breath as he slowly opened it with his heart trying to escape his chest.
The air in his old room wasn’t dusty or stale. This room was currently used. It was not waiting for him to return home.
Nothing was the same except for the spot in the middle of the room where he, too, had knelt every night. Where he, too, had settled his elbows on his mattress and pressed his palms together. Where he bowed his head, closed his eyes and mouthed the words that were expected.
Words that were hollow.
Unlike his sister’s old room, his did not remain frozen in time. Proof that they never expected or even wanted him to return. Most likely relieved he left.
His mother had turned his old bedroom into a sewing room. A sewing machine was now stationed in front of the only window. The room was also full of neatly organized bolts of fabric and all the other shit needed to sew clothes, quilts and what-fucking-ever else she made from scratch.
Unlike his friends from school, his bedroom never had a television or even a radio. He wasn’t allowed to listen to music or watch a sitcom. Comic books were forbidden. So were cell phones and the internet.
Nothing secular was allowed in this house. They did their best to prevent their children from becoming wayward.
Though, they tried so hard that it caused them to fail.
He stepped farther into the room and opened the closet to see if his hidden goodies were still there. The closet no longer held the clothes Michael left behind but more miscellaneous sewing supplies.
Every evidence of Michael’s existence was now gone.
His shoebox of snacks had been discovered and probably thrown away. Or maybe Sarah had found them and hidden them for herself. If she had, Saylor never mentioned anything to him.
If they would’ve been found, his father would have seen that as another offense and would’ve taken Michael out to the backyard, made him choose his own switch and then tied him to the post where anyone walking or driving by could witness his punishment. If they were paying attention.
He wondered how many people saw it happening and decided to look the other way. Decided it was none of their business. Decided it wasn’t worth the hassle of becoming involved.
Reilly only survived Warren almost beating her to death because of her neighbors getting involved. If they hadn’t…
Rev sucked in a slow breath, beating back the anger beginning to bubble up from his gut.
It wasn’t only from what happened to Reilly, it was from his memory of how differently their father punished his son and his daughter.
His father never took Sarah outside. It would happen in her bedroom. With the door closed.
Sometimes he would use a belt, sometimes his hand, but never a switch. He didn’t want to risk breaking Sarah’s skin like he sometimes did with Michael’s. Most likely he was afraid of scarring her and those scars eventually reducing the chance of Sarah finding the right husband.
A girl who had to be whipped often wasn’t an obedient one. And if she wasn’t obedient, she wouldn’t make a good wife.
It was the way.
Michael could hear everything in the next room because the walls were thin. He could hear the strikes of the leather or his father’s palm. He could hear Sarah crying.
But then those cries would become muffled when a large hand covered her mouth and a different kind of punishment commenced.
Michael would cover his ears and let his fury drown out the sound. He would think of other things and try not to imagine what was happening in his sister’s room.
He would also flay himself with an imaginary switch for not being brave enough to break down Sarah’s door and stop the man’s punishment.
His mother would be down in the kitchen humming. Sometimes even singing a hymn. She never stopped her husband, the father of her fucking children, from those types of lessons.
She never comforted Sarah afterward, either.
That was why Michael did.
Until he ran away and no one was left to comfort Sarah at all.
Rev squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers curled into fists and he left the room of his youth to head back downstairs.
Back then, his father had been larger than life. Now? Now he was just a shell of a bitter, abusive man.
Waiting for his end.
An end that better happen soon.
Chapter Eight
Reilly groaned and rolled over, swiping at both the wet and dry drool clinging to the corner of her mouth.
She was never drinking that much again.
Eeeeeever.
Her head pounded, her tongue had turned into a wad of cotton and, apparently, her eyes had remained wide open during a sandstorm. On the bright side, she had slept like the damn dead.
