by Jack Dey
Jaimon kept a wary watch on the principal from a distance, safely out of sight and waited for him to turn and write on the board. His heart pounded as he measured each movement, then the opportunity came. The principal turned his back to the class and focused on the board, his voice excitedly droning on, animated by his subject. Jaimon took off running on the balls of his feet, making as little noise as possible and shot past, fully expecting to hear a baritone voice calling after him. But it never came and he made it safely to the entry of the library without being noticed.
He threw his heavy bag into a space on the bag racks outside the library and rushed in, causing the librarian to look up from her desk. Staring at the floor and pretending not to notice her, he walked determinedly to the back of the library, grabbing a book from a shelf as he passed and sat down in a vacant booth. Sweat was beading on his forehead and he was breathing heavily but at least he was safe, for now.
Jaimon Reece laid his head down on the desk of the booth and contemplated his desperate situation. The high sides of his sanctuary formed a private barrier from the desks of the neighbouring students adjoining his. Each private closet was in a group of four, conjoined in a square and each using the neighbouring sides to make another private cubicle. He hadn’t noticed the cover of the book he had randomly snatched up, lying to one side of his shelter, until a face peered around the wall of the neighbouring cubicle.
Nick Rositer was the school tough guy, dressed completely in black; his oily, long stringy hair, yellow teeth and body odour gave him an added dimension of attractiveness, painting him a darker shade of evil. Rositer was two years older than Jaimon, but only a year ahead in classes. He had failed a year, but he didn’t care; he had a reputation to keep as leader of the brotherhood of the mentally challenged, keeping the special education staff at their wits end. He was also well known to the police and the principal for his delinquent and nefarious activities.
When Rositer spoke, Jaimon jumped, startled by the voice interrupting his worrying.
“Hey, freak, gimme a cigarette.”
Jaimon lifted his head swiftly, cracking the bones in his neck. He hadn’t spoken to Rositer before, but everyone knew who he was.
“I don’t smoke,” Jaimon replied nervously, the fear again rising in his chest.
Rositer’s face set threatening and angry, then broke into a loud guffaw, attracting attention from all over the quiet library. He pointed to the book and laughed again, drawing interest from his adoring followers. Jaimon peered down with horror at the joke, the book cover mocking him. Applying makeup through the ages, stared back at him. Jaimon stuttered, trying to defend his choice, when the change of class siren reverberated through the building.
He jumped up fast to exit the confrontation and in his haste, the chair went flying backward and sprawled over the carpeted floor. Rositer grasped at air as his lanky frame made a threatening swipe for Jaimon, but he slipped out of his reach.
As Jaimon broke from the library, the doors bashed heavily against the red brick walls, sending brick dust cascading to the ground. He could still hear Rositer’s laughter, interspersed with an angry librarian, chastising him and threatening him with the principal. Undoubtedly the librarian would recognise him in future and call him to account, not to mention Rositer.
Rositer wouldn’t let this opportunity pass without capitalizing or maximizing the ridicule factor to his own benefit.
*~*~*~*
Jaimon’s heavy bag made a thump on the kitchen floor as he entered the family home, finally signalling the end of another tormenting day. The challenges at home were different than school. At school there were places to hide, but at home he could be found and trapped easily, with horrific consequences.
“Jaimon, is that you?” a voice called from somewhere within the house. “Don’t walk in the kitchen; I have spent all day polishing the floors.”
Jaimon could feel a situation brewing as he quietly retrieved his bag.
From behind him another female voice called, “Too late, Mum; the runt has already sullied your hard work.”
“YOU BETTER NOT HAVE, JAIMON!” the angry voice echoed from up near the bedrooms, accompanied by heavy, determined footsteps pounding down the wooden corridor to the kitchen.
Jaimon’s mother surveyed her work and the footprints that so obviously tracked into it. “GET OUT OF IT, YOU USELESS KID! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!”
Jaimon faced his older sister, tears welling up in his eyes. “Thanks a lot, blob!” he retorted.
“DON’T YOU CALL ME BLOB, YOU LITTLE RUNT!” she spat back at him.
“SHUT UP, THE TWO OF YOU AND GET OUT OF MY SIGHT! YOUR FATHER CAN SORT YOU PAIR OUT!”
Jaimon rushed for his room and closed the door. He heard the door next to his room slam and the wall shook, as it so regularly did when his sister was performing a tantrum. He knew the day’s dramas hadn’t ended yet. His father was like a bear with a sore head when he first came home from work, taking very little provocation to light his miniscule fuse and violently striking out at the slightest misdemeanour.
Jaimon flopped on his bed, the sagging mattress covered by numerous layers of blankets, and stared at the ceiling. The blankets were his night time coping mechanism in a world filled with terror and fear. Even if he awoke drenched in sweat, the heavy weight of the blankets brought him comfort, as if a protective hand was pressing against his body and placing a barrier between him and the unseen threats of the night. Summer or winter, without the protection of the weight of the blankets pressing down on him, Jaimon lay awake, frightened beyond sleep and cowering in the darkness. His mother would castigate him, strip the blankets off his bed and place them back in the hallway linen cupboard ready for winter. The very next morning, the blankets would be back on Jaimon’s bed and she would repeat the process. Finally, she would tire of the game her quirky son seemed to be playing with her and leave them on his bed. “He can fry under the weight of them, see if I care,” she whispered to herself, annoyed.
The bedroom window and blind was another protective mechanism and a contentious issue to his mother as well. She’d open the window during the day and raise the blind, but as soon as Jaimon came home he would close it and lock it against the night, pulling the blind completely closed. Impassioned by his foolishness, his mother would order Jaimon to sleep with his window open and the blind up, but each morning she would always find them closed and locked when she came to tidy his room.
Jaimon’s head and shoulders ached; he tried to relax and get some rest before facing his authoritarian father who would be home in a little over an hour. He reached for the blind cord and then hesitated. He called for Caesar, but the ginger cat didn’t come.
That’s funny, he thought. Caesar usually came to the window when he came home, wanting to be let inside. The cat was his only friend and usually slept with him; his soft fur helped to keep the intense fear and dread of the night away.
The need to recharge before facing his father overcame his concern; meal times were intense with stress and he pulled the blind shut and darkened his room.
He would search for Caesar later.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 6
A loud thumping noise broke into his subconscious and dragged his aching mind back into the present. Jaimon glanced around sleepily at the darkness and for a moment, wondered where he was.
“Dad’s home and tea’s on the table, runt. I’d get a move on if I were you.”
Jaimon recognised the annoying, squeaky voice of his sister coming from the opposite side of his closed bedroom door. She seemingly had forgotten her sulk, something that coincided with the arrival of the authority figure back into their lives at the end of each day.
Panic rose and he wondered what sort of a mood his father would be in. His mother’s threat was still fresh in his mind and he was certain she would carry it out. Used to the tacit warnings and then the swift and brutal retribution which followed for any unintended misdemeanour, however pet
ty, he hurriedly prepared himself for the evening’s encounter. If his father was disturbed before completing his evening meal and had to discipline anyone, the consequences far outweighed any perceived misbehaviour. Jaimon’s father required absolute and immediate, submissive obedience. Even making eye contact was perceived as a threat to his authority.
Jaimon’s mother was the only one who could jolly along the despot and live to tell the story. Children were considered an inconvenience and a consequence that came from preferred selfish, unguarded night time activities. The momentary gratification held a heavy price for everyone: five children, all unwanted.
Jaimon and his sister were the only offspring left at home. The rest had moved out at the first opportunity, with the not-so-subtle urging of their parents. The favourite girl, Claudine, who was the second of the three girls, looked so much like her mother and could get away with most things until the patriarch tired of her presence and erupted, sending her scurrying for the safety of her own apartment, many suburbs away.
Jaimon’s looks were so unlike his father’s and held an uncanny resemblance to his gawky Uncle Tom, his father’s brother. He was sure there was a skeleton in the family closet and that was the reason Jaimon seemed to be singled out for more than his fair share of his father’s explosive violence. When curiosity had raised its head and he’d attempted to question his mother on his suspicions, perceived family pride closed ranks and silence fell with finality, like the lid on a coffin. What skeletons were there learned to rattle their bones in anonymity, gagged in the protection of family taboos.
To make things worse, Jaimon’s father was a low-paid salaried worker and he resented having to work so hard to support the family he never wanted, always seemingly spending his meagre resources on his progeny. Retirement was his goal and to achieve it, the drain on his resources had to stop. Something–or someone–had to go, and soon. His future plans only included two people.
Jaimon hurried out to the dining room to find his father seated at the head of the table, already eating, peering sideways through a door into the lounge room where, twenty metres away, the television was carrying on a one sided conversation, loudly exacting all the latest news. Momentarily, he would turn his head to face his plate and load another mouthful, aiming it at his mouth, and returning his undivided attention to the television set, never once acknowledging the other people gathered and noiselessly eating around the table.
Seated next to his father, Jaimon’s mother glanced up and watched her son take his place at the table, her eyes warning him not to make a sound and disturb his explosive father.
Jaimon eyed his meal. His mother was an average cook and most of her food was bland, requiring large amounts of salt to make it edible. He searched for the condiments and found them sitting at the far end of the table, guarded by the angry man. He mouthed to his mother to pass the salt. She may have been acting dumb or maybe she just didn’t understand his unspoken request. Cautiously, he peered at the despot sitting at the head of the table, his eyes flashing in fear, never taking his gaze off the authoritarian. He swallowed hard and then whispered with all the courage he could muster, “Pass the salt, please.”
“SHUDDUP!” the figure erupted, fuming from the opposite end of the table, spewing threats peppered with profanity.
The three people jumped in shock at the tirade, lowered their heads back to their meals and continued eating in acquiescent stillness. The television remained the only conversation entering the room, and perfect submission to the will of the man was restored.
Jaimon nervously watched his father push his chair out from the table and venture through the lounge room door, find his favourite chair and recline in front of the television.
His mother had reneged on her threat, for now, aware that she still had a tool to guarantee absolute obedience. She eyed the two children and with a gesture of her head whispered, “Dishes.”
Jaimon knew the night time routine well. His mother would take her knitting into the lounge room and sit in a chair close to her husband. Jaimon’s father would soon fall asleep in front of the television, until the lounge room erupted with subconscious and colourful profanities emanating from his sleeping parent. Apparently, Jaimon’s dad was wrestling with his daytime foes in his sleep, until his mother gently prodded his father out of his nightmares.
Jaimon watched his mother pick up her knitting and turn for the lounge room. Carrying a pile of dirty plates over to the kitchen sink, he whispered to her as she walked by, “Mum, I can’t find Caesar. Have you seen him?”
He watched a flash of red beam across her face and then he caught an unspoken warning glance stab at his sister from his mother’s eyes.
“No, I haven’t. You shouldn’t have that cat inside the house; you know how your father hates it.”
She spun on her heels and headed for the lounge room, ending the conversation with finality. Jaimon recognised the taboo seal placed upon his sister from their parent, the all too familiar unwritten law that states what happens in this house – stays in this house.
The clanking of dishes was the only noise radiating from the kitchen; Jaimon was deep in thought until he rejected an unclean dish.
“That’s not clean, blob!” he castigated her in a squeaky whisper.
“Where...? It is so, you little runt, and don’t call me blob!”
“Stop fighting, you two!” a hissed warning came from the lounge room.
Jaimon’s sister’s lip curled in an ugly pose and her nose wrinkled in defiance as a spiteful whisper spewed from the depths of her disdain. “I know what happened to your cat,” she muttered hoarsely.
Jaimon’s shocked gaze held hers, as if she had swiped at him with her open hand. His stomach tightened and he prepared himself for the worst.
“Last night about midnight, I heard a commotion outside my window. I pulled the corner of the blind open and I could see her holding the cat in one hand and a torch in the other, while he held open a hessian bag. Once the cat was inside, they tied it closed with a wire twine and about ten minutes later, I heard the car drive away.”
“You’re lying!” Jaimon hissed, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Oh... am I now?! I heard the car come back about an hour later and they snuck in and closed their bedroom door, like they do when they...”
“Stop it... yuk! Please, blob, tell me they didn’t hurt Caesar?” Jaimon cried.
“If you wake your father with your fights, there will be grief!” a female voice threatened again from the lounge room.
“Just wait and see. I bet the cat doesn’t ever come back,” Jaimon’s sister hissed contentedly. “There, that will teach you for calling me blob,” she spat vindictively.
Jaimon’s tears clouded his vision and he felt alone. Caesar was his only friend and now, because of that friendship, he unwittingly had sacrificed his life. He felt like running for the shelter of his room to hide, but knew if he did, there would be consequences. If the man was woken from his sleep, the altercation that would follow just wasn’t worth the bruises.
Silently and unashamedly, Jaimon’s tears fell to the kitchen floor as he replayed his sister’s conversation over and over. The dishes clanked together as they were washed and dried until finally, the ordeal ended and Jaimon ran for his room and closed the door. He made a dive for his sagging mattress and the dam of emotions burst.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 7
The weight of the blankets pressed down heavily onto Jaimon’s body, covering his mouth and allowing only his nose and eyes to be vulnerable to any would-be intruder. The room was dark and silent, and his body temperature rose to the point where he was sweating heavily under the mass of protection lying on top of his fragile frame. A battle for sanity raged in the narrow alleys of his reason, colliding heavily with the distorted highway of imagination.
Occasionally, a tormented groan from the cooling house settled in the darkness, crying out from a nearby exposed room, prompting Jaimon’s im
agination to run rampant and freeze him motionless in petrified terror. He held his breath, listening for any changes in his bizarre night time theatre, waiting, his heart hammering and expecting the tentacles of some unknown fiend to slowly work its way into his room, wrap around him and frighten him senseless. He strained his eyes, searching for the outline of his bedroom door, watching and listening intently for any tell tale signs of the door slowly opening and igniting his mind into a desperate realm of unguarded imagination, acutely aware he was deserted; alone and solely responsible to fend for his own survival.
His eyes felt tired and his head ached from the hours keeping terrified vigil. His only form of night time comfort and companionship had been so heartlessly ripped from his life, leaving him alone with a new and unwanted companion: fear.
The long, desperate night ticked by slowly. Each second was determined that Jaimon was going to notice its passing, as it spent its brief energy, adding to the countless number of its comrades that had given up their lives unnoticed to form the eons of time. Jaimon breathed slowly, not wanting his breaths to mask any sound that could be a grave threat. He guessed it was early morning and his body desperately needed to sleep, but the watchman in his mind couldn’t relax and his senses were on high alert without the presence of his calming and charismatic ginger cat.
A pain contorted the insides of his stomach and his mind drifted back to the description his sister had so casually entertained. She had described the callous demise of his only friend and the only one he truly loved as if she was describing a chapter in a cook book, distant and removed from any acknowledgement of Jaimon’s trauma and delighted with the crushing details of her story.