The boy's hand gild softly across the piano keys as though he was a part of the instrument. His eyes were closed, his forehead wrinkled with the concentration of playing by ear and composing at the same time. He finished the piece with a gentle flourish. Blythe began to clap. Slowly, other members of his family joined in, his aunt and uncle staring at him in admiration and surprise. Who knew that the eight year old who couldn't put a coherent sentence together without stammering could be that talented? The only person in the room not clapping was a tall blonde man, dressed smartly in a black pinstripe suit, white shirt and grey tie. John House stood with his arms folded across his chest, frowning. Why did the boy insist on showing off?
"Greg, that was wonderful! I loved it" Blythe said, kissing her son. Greg blushed and quickly kissed her back before pushing her away.
"T-thank you" he said, pushing the words out. He glanced over at his father, who was half concealed by the shadow. Greg saw the man flick his head towards his bedroom. The boy felt himself go pale. He kissed his aunt and excused himself, following his father into his bedroom. John shut the door with an ominous click.
"What was that?"
"I- I was p-playing p-piano" Greg stammered, his hands knotting together behind his back.
"I pay for lessons, why weren't you reading the music?"
"I-I can't f-father"
"Why not?"
"It's h-hard"
"You think you know what hard is? I just stopped a man getting shot in Guam! I watched people's brains get plastered over the floor and you think your idiocy at reading music is hard? You don't know anything" John raised his voice. Greg trembled slightly.
"S-sorry f-father"
"You will be sorry. Come here" he said, sitting on the edge of Greg's bed. "Be quiet, we don't want your aunt and uncle to know how bad you are, do we?"
"N-n-n-no f-f-father" he said, approaching his father. He didn't have a choice. John patted his legs, and Greg lay across them carefully, his head hanging helplessly between his arms. John shoved the boy's jeans down and landed ten smacks hard and in quick succession onto his underpants. Greg bit his lip hard and remained totally silent.
"Good. I prefer it when you don't make noise, Gregory. It just makes it more embarrassing for you if you let anyone find out. I'd hate for people to laugh at you, don't you agree?"
"Y-yes f-father" Greg spluttered through suppressed tears. He felt himself being shoved off his Father's lap, and put his arm out to support himself. He noticed the gleam in John House's eye and his heart sank.
"You can tell your mother you trapped it in the door" John whispered. "Put your hand in the floor, yes, just there, next to my foot. Stay still now, Gregory" Greg shut his eyes against what he knew would happen. "Now I won't have to listen to another crappy recital before I leave again" John taunted. He raised his booted foot and stomped hard on his small son's hand. They both heard the crack, and Greg felt the hot pain bust through his whole body as his middle finger snapped in two. He kept his mouth firmly shut.
"I-I..."
"I'm going to go out and talk to your uncle. In four minutes, you can come out and tell your mother you trapped it in the door. I want a convincing performance. If you let her know..."
"Y-yes" Greg understood too well. He clutched his hand tightly with his uninjured one, protecting it from more pain. He'd just been playing the piano. It had felt good. He should have known. Good feelings don't last. Ever. He'd thought maybe he'd impressed his father. He'd tried so hard with it. It was an aria, a melodic composition written for his mother to sing. She sang so well. But she never sang when John was home. And now Greg would never play.