-1A.N. I found half this chapter while cleaning up my hard drive and it renewed my interest in the story I had been planning. I have reposted all previous chapters, making some obvious improvements.
Enjoy
Chapter 6
A large dinosaur band aid, proudly picked out but Goyjo himself, half concealed the cut above his left eye. The gash wasn't especially deep but was at least a good couple of inches wide, wide enough to peek over the edges of the wickedly grinning, crudely drawn, bright blue t-rex and bury itself deep into Goyjo's hairline. Despite it's relative shallowness it had bled long trails of crimson down the bridge of Goyjo's nose and left a thick, congealed mess in his left eyebrow. Meeting the neighbouring bruise by his eye, the damage looked, admittedly, worst than it actually was. It would only take a little ice for the swelling, couple of aspirin, maybe a band aid here and there and Goyjo would none the worse. Sumire wrung her hands nervously, cursing under her shallow breath.
The clock hung high on the kitchen wall said 5:30. How long would she have to hide the evidence?
What in the world would Jien say?
On Goyjo's part, the experience was a great deal less worrying. Like children can do, the hysteria of the afternoon had conceded as soon the atmosphere had calmed, his face still beetroot red from the aftermath of tears but his expression portrayed no particular upset. The pain had now entirely subsided, thanks exclusively to the generous handful of aspirin he had dutifully swallowed; the powdery, bone white capsules offered up on his step-mothers trembling, out stretched palm. Heavily overdosed for his size, a vague blurriness clouded his vision. As he brushed his fingers against the gaudy blue and green plastic he could feel the blood welling up inside the seal. The thought of his head splitting open was a terrifying one, so he let his hand drop limply back into his lap, a leftover tear running down his face unexpectedly. He wiped it away, surprised, the sudden movement making him blink hard with dizziness, he didn't feel any need to cry again.
For the first time he could remember, for the first time in what may have been forever, his step mother had pulled him unto her lap and let him sit there.
He sat fairly awkwardly, far from her body, barely touching, but still he wasn't about to complain. He could feel her sharp knees digging into the backs of his legs and the jagged movement of her limbs as she worked around him, sticking plasters where appropriate and holding ice on his swollen and, to be discovered later, broken wrist. She smelt of an enticing mixture of peach, smoke and sweat, a sickly sweet smell which he couldn't help himself generously inhale whenever he thought she wasn't looking.
His eyes drifted down to his right wrist, half concealed with a bag of frozen peas, blues and purples edging wider up his hand and further down his arm. It had hurt, real bad, but not anymore. Just a dull ache remained beneath the tingling. All he could think of now was showing his war wound to off to Jien when he got home, ready to milk his sympathy for all its worth.
His wrinkled his nose as his mother unscrewed the iodine and the stench hit, it stung his nostrils and made his eyes well up with water.
Sumire clamped the clump of cotton wool to the neck of the bottle, generously soaking it through before bringing it to a shallow graze by his left ear. Almost instinctively he flinched away, screwing up his eyes tight, half heartedly avoiding her cotton wool aim. She sighed, frustrated and halted her dabbing. For a moment her mind was cast back to when Jien was this small and her parenting had been a the same well-meaning mixture of instinct and guesswork.
Looking down to Goyjo there was none of the same urgency, the only concern-what Jien would have to say on his return. There was something lacking, she realised with some resignation, something wholly intrinsic that was missing.
But God, he looked so frightened.
She took a firm hold of Goyjo's chin and brought his gaze to meet her own, his eyes widened and Sumire could feel him stiffen and brace himself beneath is grip. His step-mothers hands brushed softly against his skin, cooler and gentler than he ever imagined she could be. Her free hand slid round the side of his face, stoking the sensitive flesh behind his ear, comforting as she applied the antiseptic to the various scrapes that scattered his upper body.
"There." She conceded, realising that there was little else she could do to hide the evidence of the afternoon.
She bought her hands away and began to gather up the wrinkled balls of cotton wool, the slithers of plastic from the backs of the band aids, the bag of frozen peas. With a brisk movement she stood, Goyjo sliding off her lap with some surprise. Surely it wasn't so hard to pretend, to play this role of mother that she had been forced so suddenly into, to grit her teeth, to just get on with the decade sentence she had been handed. She firmly reminded herself that next time she would be able to control her temper. She must.
Goyjo stood with one hand on the kitchen table to steady himself. His young face curled up in an expression of severe concentration, it aged him far beyond his 5 years.
Then, without warning and with more courage than he could and would ever muster again, he leapt forward and wrapped his arms round her frame, taking her off balance and propelling her backwards against the kitchen table.
He held his breath, eyes screwed tight, teeth gritted, his bad arm beginning to scream with the pain of sudden exertion but he couldn't bare to let go knowing that in any moment she would harshly pull away, scold him, perhaps knock him down. He was prepared, but not for the slow movement of angular arms creeping softly around his shoulders and slithering down his back. Returning the embrace.
She patted his back once, twice; then pulled away. The memory ends there for a 10 year old Goyjo who, even 5 years down the line can recall the incident with disturbing clarity. Blows hard enough to shatter bone, the strong clinical stench of iodine that numbed the insides of his nostrils, a sharp familiar odour mixed with the smoky aroma of a dish he can't remember, the spilled contents of the boiling pot that had sparked the violent punishment in the first place.
At 10 years old he is tragically old enough to know that his step-mother, yet the only mother he will ever know, hates him more than he can realise and for reasons both unfair and inexpressible. But he will not yet be old enough to stop maybe hoping that he can win her affections. A conquest, as futile as any that will come after, a prize that can't be won. Re-lived again and again, creeping through into adulthood with a different face, a new name.
Just a child, he will sit, back slumped against the wall, nursing some injury or another, a black eye, a handful of fine, red scratches, long thin welts from the flat side of a belt. He will screw his eyes up tight, clenching growing fists and remembering this small act of kindness. Half remembered, a flickering memory that sprouts a thousand daydreams of her smooth cool hands holding his face, her softened gaze, an isolated moment of calm.