The Punished

by Peter Meredith

  Curt realized just then that there were two separate distinct beings haunting the house. If indeed haunting was the correct term. While they both felt dreadfully evil and unnatural, he could discern that one was male and the other female.

  Or at least had once been so.

  The essence of the female resided in the very structure of the house. She existed in the floors, the ceilings, the walls and he wondered if he ever took an axe to the house, would it bleed? That she would feel it, he had no doubt. She could sense almost everything within her, even the doors and their knobs and hinges. But not the windows. The sills and frames, yes, however he had never felt her presence in the heavy plexiglass. Nor was she at all obvious in the furniture, except as an extension of the floor and Curt now equated the furnishings of the home with her hair or fingernails.

  The creature, on the other hand had been a man at one time. A foul evil man. A perverse one as well. The creature had bitten him with such a nasty pleasure that it couldn't have been anything but sexual. The term perverse, he had read and heard on a number of occasions and he had, up until his punishment only a vague notion of its meaning. Now however, he may have understood it on a fundamental level better than most adults.

  Curt stripped down, groaning in pain as he did. Just thinking of the ghost like creature made him want to shower badly and he wished there was some way to turn up the shower so that water would rinse away the stench of the thing quicker.

  He cried again in the shower.

  Either that or he had never stopped crying.

  2

  After his shower, Curt forced himself not to look in the mirror above the sink. The glass would surely show a wreck of boy staring back at him. His face had swollen next to his right eye and he felt a curving row of scabs under his questing fingers. He feared that the swelling would appear grotesque, and that the bite marks would perhaps leave him with great ugly scars and in his delicate state of mind, he was too afraid to look at himself.

  As an old man would, he hobbled into his room slowly, feeling pain with every step. Exhaustion laid a hold of him and he crawled gingerly into his bed, moaning with the effort. He was asleep in minutes, unmindful of the house or its occupants and uncaring whether it was seven in the evening or ten in the morning.

  It was in fact only a few minutes past six. He had been attacked at about five and had lain on the floor unconscious for only a half hour, before he had headed to the shower.

  The night for Curt was a long misery.

  Frequently over the next twelve hours, he would come awake with half-suppressed groans as sharp pains lanced through his body. But what had him jumping up in a cold sweat, despite the pain were the endless dreams of the creature. It was all he dreamed about. And in each, he would hide and always the thing found him.

  The next morning when Miss Feanor tapped his blankets to wake him, he dried his eyes before poking his face from beneath the covers. He had been awake for some time, crying quietly in self-pity. Though it was well-deserved self-pity, he was still embarrassed. When his covers had been pulled back, Miss Feanor's eyes went wide in astonishment and then her features took on a frown of concentration as she turned his cheek one way and then the other, after which, she peered closely at the wounds. She then shrugged dismissively as if his injuries were of no concern of hers.

  Through a series of hand motions as well as mouthing of words, she said, 'Next time make sure you get punished in your bed. It won't be as bad. Now get up it's time to eat.'

  Angry tears filled his eyes at her uncaring attitude and he pulled himself up, keeping his head down hiding his fury. But his anger doubled when he turned back toward her.

  Her face was suddenly heavy with concern, not for him, but for his pillowcase and his pajamas. Sometime during the night, his scabs had weeped a pinkish fluid or had bled outright and left stains. She glared at the stains in anger and then at Curt as if any of this had been his fault.

  With a sour look, she left, and he sat back down feeling lightheaded, not at all sure he could stomach looking at either his oatmeal or Miss Feanor just then. Paul hadn't gone to breakfast after his last punishment, why should he? Groaning in his pain, he laid down beneath his covers but it seemed he had slept only moments before Amber came and pulled them back.

  Her blue eyes were rimmed red and bloodshot all the way through, it was clear that at least she was concerned for him. At the sight of his face, she started crying and at the sight of her tears, he did as well. They hugged each other gently for a moment and then she kissed him delicately.

  "Thank you," her words came so softly that they tickled his ear and though it hurt to, he smiled at her. 'You need to eat,' she gestured to him and tried to gently pull him up.

  'No,' he shook his head. 'Sleep.' His ability to converse in their improvised sign language hadn't progressed much.

  'No, you need to eat,' she signed. 'You will get better, faster.'

  Curt didn't care much about getting better just at the moment. His body ached from head to toe and the trip down to the kitchen nook seemed too far to even try. And then there was the fact that he would have to face Matt.

  The very thought of the boy turned his mind black as night and he swore silently to himself that he'd kill the older boy somehow. At that moment, it wasn't an idle threat, it was survival. Curt knew that there was little he could do to stop Matt from having him punished whenever the older boy felt like it and if he were to suffer a few more nights like the last one, Curt would be ready for the loony bin just as the mouse was.

  Miss Feanor was another reason he wished to stay in bed, he despised her nearly as much as he did Matt, and then there was Paul. He was sure to see a look of gloating triumph on Paul's face and if he did, Curt knew that he would begin to hate him as much as he did the rest.

  He didn't want that. He wanted Paul to be sane again.

  The only person he actually wanted to see, besides Amber, was the mouse. With a punishment out of the way and the pressure diminished, he hoped that she would be less likely to obsess over her lost love letters. Still the mouse was not enough for him to go down stairs and he refused to move under the straining arms of Amber.

  Curt thought he would stay right where he was, but Amber was more resourceful than he realized.

  First, she tried pouting. Then she tried an assortment of cute looks. Neither budged him. Next, she went with a move that surprised him. Stepping to his doorway, she slowly lifted up her shirt.

  His eyes, swollen and puffy bugged at this and she had his full attention. She stopped just shy of exposing herself and then gestured, 'Come on if you want to see more.'

  She backed into the hall and like an automaton, he followed, dragging himself along. Only from the perspective of a thirteen-year-old boy could Amber's malnourished body be considered sexy. She was flat as a board, with hips that were slimmer than Curt's but the promise of a peek was enough to get him moving.

  She wasn't a liar or a tease and when she saw that he was actually going to follow him down the stairs, she turned and flashed him.

  3

  It was worth it, Curt decided.

  But that was before he started down the stairs. Each stair was a reminder of his torture and he grimaced and groaned with every step. At length, he made it to the kitchen nook, where upon he kept his face down for the most part, embarrassed by the swelling that he had yet to see.

  Sitting down, his stomach rolled over at the sight of the sticky grey paste in the bowl in front of him. It looked thicker than usual, but he knew he would have to get at least some of it down if he were going to take the two large white pain pills and the smaller red vitamin that sat just above his bowl on the table. Grabbing his spoon, he glanced up only long enough to see that his hatred for Matt was well justified and the smug look the boy wore, burned at Curt's heart. He turned his battered face toward Paul as well and if he gloated, Curt couldn't tell as the blonde boy kept his eyes averted staring down into his oatmeal.

  Thankfully, the mous
e looked more relaxed. It assuaged his guilt somewhat, but unfortunately, she wouldn't stop wandering her eyes over his misshapen face and it started to bother him a great deal.

  However, what bothered him most of all was Miss Feanor.

  As they came into the kitchen she only sat staring at her coffee mug as always, yet eventually she looked up and saw the red, scabbed over gouge on the side of Amber's face. She flew into a silent rage over this and astonished Curt by slapping Matt across the face, but his astonishment went even further when she turned and slapped him as well.

  The pain made his eyes water and before he knew it, Curt was weeping again. The tears were impossible to control, as was his breath, hitching as he sobbed. All of his frustration and anger and hate and fear came out, right there at the breakfast table. He was terribly embarrassed, and it was long minutes before he could control himself. Miss Feanor waited patiently in an angry stew until he did.

  'No more of this!' Her gestures were hard and swift. 'Anymore and I put the Teeth on you both.' They all nodded solemnly and then Matt made sure to catch Curt's eye making it clear, there little feud wasn't over.

  Everyone except Curt went back to eating their breakfast. At first, he could only stare at his oatmeal in disbelief at how unfair Miss Feanor was being. All of his being wanted to say something to her. To protest her ill treatment of him, but then he caught Matt's look. He wanted Curt to say something as well.

  Curt wouldn't give him the satisfaction and went back to his breakfast, but Matt wasn't done trying to hurt the youngest child just yet. He ate quickly and a second before he showed his empty bowl to Miss Feanor, he showed Curt something as well. In a quick, unobtrusive way, Matt opened his right hand and there in his palm sat two large white pills and a smaller red one. Before Curt's eyes could finish widening in surprise, Matt had popped the pills into his mouth in a single fluid motion.

  "Hey..." Curt started to protest the theft of his pain pills, but stopped himself and bit back the useless accusation that had formed on his lips. It wouldn't have done any good to tattle on Matt, at best they would have both been punished, but more likely, it would just be Curt. Matt got up a second later and in defeat, Curt kept his face down like an abused dog, not wanting to see whatever look the older boy had for him. Deep depression began to settle over the mind of the young man.

  Matt was just too good. There had only been a couple of instances when he could have taken the pills and each would have taken both daring and skill. Curt was no longer impressed with Matt's abilities as a thief, rather, he was now deeply afraid of them.

  He started to eat again, but ate so slowly that everyone finished ahead of him and left the room, all save Miss Feanor, who except for a couple of trips to the attic, would sit in the kitchen for the remainder of the day. During his long meal, he turned over in his mind every possible way that he could deal with Matt, but Curt saw that he'd always be on the defensive with him and sooner rather than later, the older boy would get him punished again.

  The thought gave him such a nasty turn, that once again he began toying with the idea of killing Matt. But it was little more than wishful thinking. The bigger boy had already proved that he was more than a match for Curt physically, while mentally Matt was cunning and devious.

  He sighed loudly, causing Miss Feanor to glance up from her mug with a glare. The look turned his hatred from Matt to her and it made him want to be well away from her, he left the room a moment later, slowly, painfully making his way to the family room to find Amber.

  She was there, but so was Matt, who was practically sitting on her lap. He smiled at Curt as if they were good friends and toyed idly with the girl's blonde hair. The same girl he had stabbed in the face only the evening before.

  Curt lowered his head in defeat. He was helpless to stop Matt in anyway, especially in the shape he was in. Matt knew this as well and pressed his advantage, running his hands up Amber's leg. She squirmed away from him but he followed, backing her up against one of the ornate couches that they weren't allowed to sit upon. Before coming to the home, Curt had never before been a hero in any way and after the previous night, he didn't ever want to be one again. Nevertheless, he found himself stepping into the room towards Matt. The older boy sprang up eagerly.

  Their fight was short, over within seconds, but it had long-term fatal ramifications, all stemming from the fact that when he was lying upon the floor, bleeding into the lines of the wood, Curt found the lost paperclips.

  Chapter 20

  The Treasure

  1

  In truth, Curt couldn't remember much of the fight.

  He remembered Amber dashing out of the room, the moment Matt had stood up and he remembered how it hurt even to raise his arms in his normal fighting stance and finally he remembered how hard it was to see out of his right eye due to all the swelling there. He even recalled a distant hope that a punch wouldn't come from that direction, because he would never see it coming.

  That was about it.

  And now he was trying to figure out why they were fighting in the first place and where he was exactly. His mind felt as coherent as a scramble of leaves in an October wind, but slowly two things came to him: he was in the family room and he was bleeding. Looking down, he saw his blood drain from him, trickling in a steady stream from a cut somewhere on his face. It formed a swiftly growing puddle on the pretty hardwood floors.

  The puddle began to spin rapidly and Curt who was on his hands and knees at the time collapsed into it, smearing the side of his head with his own fluids. He laid like that for a while, trying to think with any semblance of clarity and eventually he felt a tiny bit stronger and rolled over.

  "Uhhh," he groaned as he went to his back. He did this without any of his usual grace and his right hand swung out and smacked the floor with a wet sound. His hands were slick with his own blood. Just then, he noticed that the mouse was in the room and his brain told him that she had been there the whole time. She had shied away from his reddened hand, but now she eyed him in her crazy way. Thankfully, it wasn't fifth day crazy, only first day crazy so it was at least bearable, not that Curt could do much about it either way, he didn't think that he had the strength to even stand.

  His head lolled back and forth for a moment and he saw that that he and the mouse were alone, she knelt in her usual spot, leaning over the box that held her cat puzzle. Since this was the first of the week, he found it strange that she hadn't taken it out and begun work on it yet. She could still be broken up over the loss of her letters, but her demeanor that morning didn't really suggest that. He felt as though he was missing something and he wished his head would stop pounding so that he could think clearly.

  Out of the fog of his mind, an idea came to him to get her back into her usual routine. Perhaps if he could help the mouse start the puzzle, she could take it from there and who knows, maybe he could help her actually finish the thing for once. Not that morning certainly, but possibly the next if she were still having problems and if he felt any better. It seemed like a good plan and his guilt over what he had done to her dropped a degree.

  At least something felt right.

  Absently, he put out his hand to touch the box, which was only a couple feet away, but the mouse snatched it away protectively, her eyes weaving up and down him were cloudy with emotion. Lying there in a pool of his own blood, he watched in confusion as the mouse took the puzzle box and put it back on the shelf, burying it among the other games and puzzles that sat there. It seemed so childish of her to hide the box in plain sight with him just there. The scene was so naive in its innocence that he found it endearing really and for a moment, he liked her.

  He would've like her even more if she would get some paper towels and help him clean up the mess of his blood, but she was crazy and he'd have to do it himself.

  Too bad Amber wasn't here to... He suddenly remembered what he had fought Matt over and a brief surge of fear laden energy infused his muscles.

  "Uhh." More groans escape
d him as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. His head swam for a moment, but he didn't think he had time to worry about fainting and struggled to his feet. He trembled as he walked, yet made it to the doorway, leaving great bloody smears as he gripped the frame. Resting there for a moment, he glanced back and a wave of shock came over him. The pool of blood he had created was much bigger than he had realized and he put his hand to his face. The older cuts on his face had reopened, and he had a new one on the bridge of his nose. It bled freely.

  He didn't care.

  He was too afraid for Amber to care. Stepping into the hall, he looked up the stairs and saw that his immediate fears could now become secondary. Matt leaned against the bathroom door and Curt knew that Amber had made it safely inside. Good.

  Unfortunately, Matt had all the patience of a cat waiting outside a mouse-hole and could be there for a few hours without a problem. With his head spinning, Curt decided he would have to worry about that later and not knowing what else to do, he went back inside the family room, deciding to keep his mess to a single location rather than bleed all over the house.

  2

  The mouse stood with her back to the games.

  But just then Curt didn't care about her. At the moment, he cared about his huge headache and the blood that still ran down his face. Dragging his feet, he stood next to the puddle, which was already becoming tacky at the edges. It looked very dark. A deep maroon, while the fresh blood on his shirt seemed a cheery bright red. His shirt was ruined. He pulled it off and held it to his face, mostly staunching the flow of blood, it hurt, but there was nothing he could do about that. His head felt heavy and despite all the blood pattering to the floor, it seemed sodden and he wobbled in place, tilting back and forth before he found the sense to sit down. For a long time he sat there and his only companion was the mouse standing as if she were guarding her stupid puzzle box.