Magical Law and Government, task 3: Write about a harsh punishment.
Word Count: 1230
i.
He is six when his mother sets the liver before him. Piers sniffs it, nose wrinkling in disgust. Another sniff confirms that it smells disgusting.
He knows the rules, though. His parents usually pretend he doesn't exist, but they see him now, and that means he has to be perfect. One wrong move, and he could find himself locked out of the house, trapped barefoot in a snowstorm again.
Trying ignore the gross smell, he cuts into it. Oily liquid spills from it, and he wants to throw up; he knows he can't. Piers tells himself that he can get through this, that it isn't so bad. There are peas on the side, and he loves them. That will be enough to get him through.
He takes a bite, and he can't even pretend to enjoy it. The flavor is so bad, and the liver just feels wrong. He grabs his napkin and spits it out. There's no way to hide what he's done, so he looks up and offers his mother an apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry, Mum," he tells her. "I did try. I promise."
Her dark eyes harden, and she climbs to her feet. In a perfect world, his father would step in and stop, but he sits back and watches the scene unfold. When it's all over, he'll tell Piers that none of this would happen if he would just be a good boy.
His mother taps her perfectly manicured nails against the table. "Maybe it's the plate, dear," she says, and her words seem kind, but her tone is deadly. "Here. Let's fix this."
She lifts the plate and dumps it. Liver, gravy, rice, and peas fall into a messy pile on the tile floor. Piers stares at it, blinking in confusion and trying to understand what is happening. Is he supposed to clean it up? He stands and starts to walk away, but his mum grabs him roughly by his neck. She jerks him roughly, forcing him into his knees.
"Eat," she says.
"Mum, I really–"
His sentence is cut off as she grips his dark hair and pushes his face forward, into the mess of food. Piers thrashes, panicking. Rice and gravy go up his nose, and he begins to cry.
"I said eat."
She releases him, and Piers lifts his head, gasping for breath. His face is covered with food, and he is too afraid to wipe it away.
"You know the rules. You're supposed to eat what's on your plate. But since you think you're too good for that," she says darkly, making her way back to her seat, "you get punished. Now, eat."
Trembling, Piers reaches for the liver, but his father clears his throat. "No using your hands," he says. "You want to disrespect your mother's cooking? You're not allowed to touch it."
His cheeks burn, and fresh tears sting his eyes. It doesn't matter that it's just his parents; this is the most humiliated he's ever been. He rests his palms flat on the floor and lowers his head like a dog. It isn't easy to eat like this. He has to turn his head way this way and that, but he gets the hang of it.
His parents begin chatting about how work is rough, and exactly what Mrs. Down-the-Road's much younger lover looks like. Once again, Piers is forgotten, but he doesn't dare abandon his punishment. He stays on his hands and knees, bending and craning until he's aching and there isn't even the smallest smear of gravy on the floor.
…
After that day, he is too terrified to ever refuse food again.
ii.
"Okay, I need you to be completely honest with me." Max sets the plates down and pushes his dark curls from his face. "What do you think?"
Piers feels a block of ice in his stomach as he looks down at the liver and gravy on his plate. It's been five years since his parents died, since the last time they hurt him. Though his cousin has been the kindest and gentlest guardian Piers could ever ask for, Piers is still traumatized.
Sometimes he doesn't realize exactly how fucked up his childhood had been until Max shows him what goodness looks like. Little things would have made his parents rage–when he was four and wet the bed, and his parents made him sleep outside in his soaked pajamas; when he was eight and spilled his mum's perfume, and she had made him go to school smelling like a girl because she says humiliation is the only way he will learn–but Max is calm through everything.
"My mum used to make it," Max says, oblivious to the way Piers' breathing becomes uneven. "I can never quite get the seasonings right."
It's Max, and Max would never hurt him. Still, his parents' outrageous punishments are still so fresh in his mind, and all he can think of is being forced onto his hands and knees and made to eat like a dog. His arms had ached for days after that, and he had gotten sick–from the food or from something else on the floor, he isn't sure. Seeing liver again now makes his heart race painfully in his chest, and tears cling to his dark lashes.
He can't complain. Complaining is bad, and bad boys get punished.
"Piers?"
Piers doesn't even realize he's sobbing until Max is by his side and holding him close. His cousin knows about the abuse, but only to an extent. He doesn't know that the world is made up of landmines, and even the smallest thing can make his world crumble.
"Hey. Talk to me," Max says, pushing a hand through Piers' close-cropped hair. "What's up?"
The dam bursts, and Piers tells him everything. There's no more dancing around the subject. Each and every punishment and moment of neglect he's ever faced spills from his lips and is on display.
Three years old and locked in the boot of the car because he had cried after dropping his lollipop.
Four years old and held underwater until he had nearly passed out because he hadn't listened when his dad had told him to stop running by the pool.
Countless days without food or clean clothes because his parents had grown bored of him.
Max holds him close, and Piers grips his navy-blue shirt for dear life, so afraid to let go.
"It's okay. Shhh." Max's soft hands brush over Piers' tear-stained cheeks. "If anything bothers you, you have to tell me."
Piers swallows down a lump in his throat, but he still feels like he's choking. He nods, but his cousin sees right through it.
"I mean it. That's how you start healing." He pulls away, thin lips tugging into an encouraging smile. "I'm going to set you up to talk to my old therapist. She really helped after…" He clears his throat, his pale, freckled cheeks turning red. "She's great, and I think she can help you get through this."
Piers nods mutely, unsure of what to say. That seems to be convincing enough for Max. His cousin takes the plates and marches to the kitchen.
"Why don't you ring that pizza place you like?" Max calls. "Get whatever you want. Pizza sounds better than liver anyway."
…
After that day, he slowly begins his journey into healing.