He saw her looking at the belt, her green eyes reflecting shock and possibly pity. Shit, he should have taken it down and hidden it from view. No one needed to see his "reminder," especially her.
She slowly walked to where it hung from a nail on the wall, pausing briefly before reaching up and taking it in her delicate hand. She turned it over and recoiled at the sight of the dried blood along the back side of the leather, Murphy's dried blood. She stood in place as her thumb lightly ran across the red stains, her eyes unblinking at the horror she held in her trembling grasp.
Murphy didn't know what to do or what to say. How do you explain a belt covered in layers of blood hanging on the wall like a fucking picture? She wasn't dumb, she had to know why his father hung a belt on the wall and she had to know it was used on him. If only he had thought to take it down but he was accustomed to seeing it hanging there on display, it'd been on that same nail for years. He only thought about the belt when his father took it off the nail to discipline him, which was a fairly common occurrence.
He shifted on his feet, watching her while he waited for her reaction, his toe tapping nervously on the tiled floor. He'd never brought a girl home before; she was the first one ever, even though he was a ripe old age of 15. He still couldn't believe someone as pretty as Emily wanted to skip school with him. When he asked her to come over he'd expected her to laugh in his face but she didn't, all she did was smile and ask if they'd be alone. He told her they'd have the house to themselves, they could do whatever they wanted and no one would be home before four. His father was working and his mother was shopping all day in town, it all worked out brilliantly. Until Emily saw the fucking belt.
"That's a joke, by the way," Murphy explained as Emily released the belt from her hand and watched it quietly slap against the wall. "It's not real blood or anything. It's fake."
She turned to look at him and he could see the disbelief in her eyes. She knew it wasn't a joke. She knew it wasn't covered in fake blood. She knew what it was and what it was used for. She fucking knew.
"I figured it was from Halloween or something," she said with a dismissive scoff toward the belt and a shrug of her shoulder, her smile gentle and kind. "Guess you forgot to take it down, huh?"
He couldn't believe she gave him the excuse he needed, even though they both knew it was bullshit. "Yeah, I forgot it was even up there. I'll take it down now."
He wanted that belt off the wall but he never had the guts to do it before today. It was horrible to have to walk by it every day, to have it in his line of sight when he ate at the kitchen table, to have it just hanging there waiting to be used on him. His father named it "Murphy's Little Reminder." It was there to remind Murphy to do what his father told him, to quit being a fuck up and to "be a good boy," like his mother always whined.
But now he was going to be defiant, he was going to do what he'd wanted to do for years. He was going to take that fucking belt and throw it in the garbage. And that's just what he did. His hands shook a bit but he didn't think Emily noticed. If she ever met his father, she'd understand why he shook though, he was a mean fuck.
When he turned back toward the prettiest girl he'd ever seen, that's when it happened. She walked right up to him and kissed him full on the lips, tongue and all. He didn't know why she chose that moment to kiss him and he really didn't fucking care, all he knew was her tongue was in his mouth and her breasts were pressed against his chest. And he liked it.
They kissed for a while with Murphy leaning his back against the kitchen counter and Emily leaning against his body, each becoming quickly overheated and red in the face. When they finally came up for air, she mumbled something about wanting to move to the couch as she hooked her fingers into the belt loops on his jeans and pulled. She walked backwards, pulling him along by his pants and he let her lead him to the living room. When she reached the couch, she pulled him on top of her with a hard tug on his trousers and a soft giggle from her mouth.
They instantly resumed their eager kissing along with tentative touching and rubbing, their shoes kicked off and their shirts soon joining the shoes on the floor. Murphy wasn't thinking, he was only paying attention to the girl beneath him, her mouth, her body, what she was doing with her hands and he quickly lost all concept of time.
No one should have been home for hours, they should have had plenty of time, it wasn't even two o'clock. Murphy never heard the car pull up, he never heard the back door open and he never heard the footsteps that signaled the arrival of his parents into the living room. How could he possibly have heard anything over his own heavy breathing and Emily's soft moans? His focus was solely on what was happening on the couch and nothing more.
The hand in his hair shocked him away from the girl and what she was doing, it ripped him from the pleasure and introduced him to the pain. It wasn't her soft hand playfully tugging on his hair like when they first started kissing, this was a heavy hand, this was a hand that knew how to inflict terrible pain, this was a hand that knew no mercy.
The hand pulled Murphy off the girl and he stumbled backwards across the floor, skidding on his butt as he was dragged away toward the kitchen. He hated that his father always grabbed him by his hair; it fucking hurt which is probably why he did it.
Emily gasped and sat up, trying to cover herself as she reached for her shirt on the floor, looking wide eyed at Murphy as he struggled to free himself from the tight grip of his father. When they reached the kitchen, he was lifted to his feet as his father pulled the chair out from the table, pushing him onto it and forcing him to sit. The big man pointed his finger in the skinny boy's face and commanded him to stay put as he moved to return to the living room.
Murphy could hear his mother in the next room chastising Emily, calling her a tease, telling her to get dressed and get out of her house. The commotion was quickly followed by the sound of the front door and the return of his parents.
"Where's the belt?" His father pointed at the nail on the wall where the belt used to wait. Of course he'd notice the missing belt, it was his favorite thing in the whole world. "You better answer me, boy."
Murphy stood up, glaring as defiantly as he could as his father waited for an answer, trying to be as brave as possible. His voice was louder than he expected but the tremor gave away the fear he held in his heart. "I threw it in the fucking garbage. Where it belongs."
His father stormed across the kitchen to retrieve the belt, Murphy moving in the opposite direction toward the living room to create distance. He never knew why he tried to get away, he was never successful at avoiding a beating. But he hoped that maybe, just once, he'd be able to escape the pain. Maybe this time he wouldn't hurt for days afterward.
As his father dug in the garbage, Murphy decided he had to leave, his father was red faced with fury over the removal of the belt. Murphy had never been so defiant before, he had talked back plenty of times, he'd even tried to get away, but he'd never before had the nerve to so boldly throw away the abusive tool known as his father's belt. This beating was sure to be vicious, his father was in a borderline blind rage.
Murphy walked toward the living room, toward the front door, toward the freedom that was so close yet so far. His mother grabbed him by his arm as he passed by her and he paused to look at her, shocked that she stopped him. She never stopped him before when he tried to run, she never helped him, but she never stopped him either. She knew what was about to happen, she knew his father would beat him again. She knew but she still stopped him from leaving.
"The little whore is gone, Murphy."
He angrily pulled away from her and she grabbed at him again, her nails digging into the bare flesh of his arm as she turned him around to face her once again. "Don't you walk away from me, young man. I'm your mother."
"I wish you weren't!" Murphy yelled back, his words causing her to freeze in shock. He meant what he said, he wished she wasn't his mom, he meant it and she knew he meant it. He stared at her, waiting for her to let him go but instead of releasing him, he felt her nails dig deeper into his skin.
The slap across his face was a shock to him, the smacking of her hand on his pale cheek was loud, the stinging in his face instantaneous. She wasn't a large woman but she hit him as hard as she could and his head turned to the side from the power of her blow, her rings leaving marks on his skin.
"Don't you ever say that again, Murphy!" she yelled and when he turned back to face her, she slapped him again just as hard as the first time. His head dipped and he glared at her through the hair that was hanging in his eyes, beads of sweat on his brow making his auburn hair look even darker.
She paused at the look in the teenager's eyes, surprised that he took her slaps with no resistance, he didn't fight her like he did the big man. She didn't like his teenage attitude, the look on his face, the glare in his eye.
"Wipe that look off your face, Murphy."
But he didn't change his glare. On the contrary, his eyes narrowed in a challenge. And when he saw her pull her hand back for another hit, he stood stoically waiting for the impact. With that third slap, her rings cut him across his cheekbone, a thin trickle of blood stark red against his skin as it slowly ran down his face.
He clenched his jaw shut to prevent himself from talking back and he looked at her through hurt eyes, her eyes looking back at him with anger. Murphy couldn't believe it, she'd never hit him before and now she'd done it three times in a row.
The movement of his father from across the room snapped Murphy back to action. The bleeding on his face would be nothing compared to what his father would do to him if he caught him. Murphy pulled his arm away as hard as he could as his mother attempted to remain clenched to his skin. Her nails left red stripes on his bicep that matched the thin stripe of blood on his face.
Murphy ran to the front door, hearing his father's heavy boots quickly following. He had to get out, he was fast, and if he got outside he could run away. He pulled on the door but it didn't open, his mother had locked it when Emily left. The deadbolt was in place and Murphy fumbled with the lock as he desperately tried to open the door. But he wasn't quick enough, the lock always stuck and this time was no exception.
His father grabbed Murphy with his preferred grip, by the hair, and he flung him against the wall. The family picture that hung on that wall, the one with the fake smile Murphy had plastered on his face, fell to the ground with a loud crash of breaking glass. Before he could scramble away, the boot was in his side, the bruising kicks cracking one of Murphy's ribs. The boy struggled to breathe as another kick caused another crack of a rib, the loud snap of pain causing Murphy to clutch at his sides and moan.
When the kicks stopped, he looked up at his parents from the floor still clutching his ribs. They were both looking down at him, his mother suddenly seeming concerned by the state of the child cowering from the big man's boot. She turned to say something to his father, the big man's attention drawn away from the child and Murphy quickly got to his feet and ran.
He ran in the only direction he could go, the only direction that wasn't blocked by his parents. He ran up the stairs toward his room, he'd lock himself in the bathroom if he had to, there was a small lock on the door that might keep his father out. He had to try.
Murphy barely remembered being at the top of the stairs. He barely remembered his father catching him before he got close to the bathroom. He barely remembered being thrown down the stairs by the big man. All Murphy remembered was the expression on his mother's face as he tumbled back down toward her, his body twisting as he fell and hitting each step with different parts of his body.
"Your son is waking up, Mrs. Martin," the soft voice was nearby and Murphy struggled to open his eyes, recognizing the medicinal smell of the hospital that filled his nose. "Take it easy, son. You had quite the fall down the stairs."
Murphy looked at the man next to him, obviously a doctor, he had a white coat and stethoscope. The doctor put his hand gently on his shoulder and patted it, "You'll be fine, just a couple broken ribs and a whole lot of bruises. You also might get a headache due to your concussion. You hit your head pretty hard."
"It was awful seeing him fall like that. He scared us so badly," his mom explained to the doctor from the other side of the cot. Her warm hand cupped the clammy skin of his cheek and he flinched in reaction to her hand. "Stop that, Murphy. It's your mom."
He glanced at her and bit his lip, willing himself to stay still, wondering how he got to the hospital. And why. They'd never taken him to the hospital before, no matter how badly they hurt him, he'd never been given any medical attention of any kind. Why was this time different?
That's when he noticed the policeman standing in the doorway, watching him. Murphy could see his father standing in the hall behind the officer, his eyes a pinpoint focus on Murphy. It was a warning.
Murphy found out Emily told her father how Murphy had been dragged away by his hair and how scared she was that he'd be hurt. He'd come to the house to check on Murphy, to make sure he wasn't being beaten and that's why the ambulance was called. The man had arrived to find Murphy lying unconscious at the bottom of the stairs.
The officer wanted to speak to Murphy. Alone. And when it was just him and the policeman, when he was asked what happened, Murphy lied. He said he tripped and fell down the stairs, it was his own fault, no one else's. He wasn't hit, he fell. Murphy lied.
That night he went home with his parents. Back to the house of pain. Back to the house of torture.
His father grabbed him by the back of the neck and squeezing painfully, he pushed Murphy into the kitchen. There on the floor was the blood stained belt, lying where his father had dropped it, just waiting for Murphy.
Murphy was forced to put his "reminder" back on the wall. After the beating.