Shape of the Stop

At the sound of the command, things stopped. My father must have also recognised the tone of the command. There was no further smack, slap or strike. I looked up carefully, and saw my parent’s bedroom door open, and my mother stood in the doorway. “That’s enough!” she demanded. My father started to say something, but she said, even more sternly, “I said, that is enough!” Her diminutive frame (only 152 cm. tall weighed approx 47.63Kg see blog 22^nd Sept 2012) imposed itself on the space. My father didn’t say anything further. “Get up”, she said to me. I got up very slowly and stood there cringing. I admit I was terrified of still receiving further whacks. My father appeared to have finished and I thought, thank goodness. I was more than relieved and I was sore. “Goodnight”, my mother said and closed her door. I stood a moment thinking my father wouldn’t dare start again and jumped when he grabbed the back of my neck and steered me to the bathroom door. He opened it and pushed me inside. I didn’t slip or fall, but remained on my feet.

“You will stay there until I tell you”. My father said to me in a tight whisper. “Do not sit down. Do not move from there.” I stood, still hurting. To terrified to move, anywhere. The door was closed and then swung open again. “I mean it!” he said angrily. ‘Do not move from that spot”. The door closed again. I stood. The linoleum in the bathroom was cold. In fact it was very cold. My bare feet felt chilled in the short time I had been standing there already. I heard my father’s muffled voice further down the hall. He was saying something and knocking on what sounded like his bedroom door. I heard his asking tone of voice. Then there was a bang as if the door had been slapped.  I stood waiting. His footsteps came back down the hall and I realised my mother must have shut him out of their bedroom. That wasn’t going to be good for me. I had already felt the effects of his long day and anger at having to attend the hospital, and now, if he had been shut out of his own bedroom, he was not going to be happy. Didn’t my mother realise that I hadn’t made it back to my bed yet? I don’t think she had. And now he was even angrier. He stormed back down the hall towards the bathroom door and I literally shook with fear as I awaited the door flying open and my father’s anger, finding an outlet. Then I heard the lounge room door open and close and after a moment the television came on. And there was the sound of the television test signal. Oh, dear. No television to watch, as the only station which broadcast (yes, there was once only one channel back then), had shut down for the night. So there was nothing to watch. Except a terrified, slightly bruised child, in his pyjamas, standing in bare feet on the cold bathroom floor, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

(Continued tomorrow)