Shape of the Painting

The second smack caught me on the back of my head, knocking me in the other direction. I recall ‘yowling’. I understand the word exactly. It’s not a call, a laugh, a scream or a howl. It is a definite combination of a series of random, oral explosions of sound, and is definitely uncontrolled yet, reproducible. As the next strike connected on my rear, I realised my father had grabbed my pyjama collar and having the advantage of height and force, had struck his blow and projected me forward in such a way that I would swing back after the blow connected. I of course made the unwise attempt to twist free, which only resulted in the next blow connecting with my left leg. I had somehow, stupidly, managed to present him with four different strike zones in the first four strikes. How foolish was I. He had the impetus (obviously stored up from his long wait at the hospital) and definitely was showing the desire to deal with me.

Now from the various comments I have received from those reading my blog regularly, you have been hanging out since the event began to be explained in April (see Blog April 10, 2012), to hear what actually occurred by way of punishment. Really. Are you all serious? You want to know how much this young child went through? How deviant. Surely you are not wanting to hear the full blow by blow account? Not that I am going to wait for your further email responses. I appreciate your patience, but I trust you will all ask yourselves, why. Why I have been waiting to read this part? I will leave each of you to consider your responses in the privacy of your own minds. Me? I can remember it, so I do.

I do recall much of it. There were many blows, and strikes, swipes and slaps. Several pushes into the wall, and/or bathroom, or lounge room door. I recall this was the moment I came to really dislike one of my father’s paintings that hung in the hallway. It was of a horse’s head. A tan coloured animal with a white front blaze. As I was being slapped on the legs, I recall my eyes looking up at this horse’s solemn face. It’s large dark eyes looking down at me. It too looked sad. I could already feel bruises, rapidly developing. Fortunately (for us), we were not chubby children, as apparently bruises do not show clearly, unless you have a certain amount of fatty tissue to bruise. Our father fortunately, could generally avoid the face. I was thankful for that, but if you tried to protect where he was about to strike, then he wasn’t adverse to a slap to make you move your hand to cover your face against another, thereby, allowing him clear strike to another part of the body. My only point of relief was hearing the grunting, as my father, not the fittest man on the planet, quickly tired from the exertion of the belting I was currently receiving. Then suddenly, a single word sounded above it all. “Stop!”

(Continued tomorrow)