CHILDHOOD

Games are heated, art is cool
so let none speak too grand
childish fun is time to rule
o'r fantasies by hand

grown ones go, their past returns
when toys are held too close
so keeping toys away and spurned
allows them yet to boast

sharing's good, all is well,
the family is at harmony
all's forgotten, even when
they once more suffer harm from thee.

* * *

I wanted to go commit violence against those back-alley impostors, whose play had apparently gained a small following. I'd heard the climax featured the poor boy wrapped in his grandfather's slimy hands, stuck in his lap, frightful look on his face. Apparently, that was when the wife joined in, and started- well, you get the idea. The boy was my age, and was kept in a cage the rest of the week. He wasn't allowed to leave, which ached my heart, for I knew exactly that he was only living the pain I'd saved myself from, barely. For that, the band of wankers were rightfully labeled, finally, as criminals – for they'd crossed a line they couldn't come back from. So the guards broke it up, and chased down their perpetrators into dead ends, and slammed them into wooden stocks. They were whipped daily, and made to milk cows with the very hands they'd first used to milk themselves. That made me wary of the town's dairy, and I was glad I'd long stopped partaking. Unless the guards had made them wash their hands, but still. At first this punishment seemed to disperse the skags, but there were always more next week, with clay masks of various kinds to hide their shame. The guards had trouble on their hands with one figure especially, who was said to be as 'tall as a house and fat as a whale'. That sounded like The Oaf, to me. He was said to be the production's highest charitor, and a 'fanatic' by his own accord. Had he known he was the inspiration, I think he might have cried with joy – it was no wonder he couldn't tear himself away from it. The mirrored tale was like his dreams and my nightmares rolled into one, and in that vision, he was both captor and victor – while I was, if they were to have their way, fodder-grist. It gave him somewhere else to be, which I thought would improve things for me... but it didn't. In fact, it only taught him what he'd already believed all along: that I was 'wrong', and he was 'right'. He'd met a crowd that sated his avarice, like bandits feeding wolves (again, I know, with the wolves), and assumed that made them saints. But they were feeding him the splayed and glistened limbs of children; so saints, they couldn't possibly have been. The whole mess (figurative or otherwise) made me wonder if acceptance was as dangerous as a sword, in the wrong hands. The boys' captors would need to face justice, for their pornography was founded not on paid service, but slavery. I paid the wankers no mind, knowing they were just putting stains in their tunics that identified them as ghosts in sheets. Or ghouls, perhaps, for their eagerness to prey on the buried pains of those around them. Not only were they becoming easier to spot (and make fun of), but so was The Oaf for being with them. He'd brought more sweat home that month than usual, and always looked tired... and just a little too satisfied with himself. And, he'd always rush to put soap and water to his pants, which always had stains of mead – exactly around his lap. He said he'd spilled his drink off the bar counter, yet again. A precocious ploy for one who plays so dumb. It disgusted me, and I had to pretend he wasn't plain as day for it while I hurried my lunch away to go eat at the patio table.
"I just feel like eating outside today," I'd say.
He'd nod, thinking himself a master of deception. Whatever furniture he sat on next would reek of his shame for days, so I elected to avoid the couches altogether for the rest of my stay.

A week later, I rejoiced on the hills of the grounds that he was gone again, and there was no more deception or stench to endure. I'd been fearing for that caged child, but he'd already died – for just last week, there was no show. He must have been killed during 'rehearsal'. The town guards found him under the millhouse, but nobody claimed him for their own – nor could his killers be identified. There was also a young girl and a stray dog, and the script those slavers had prepared was an unspeakable union between multiple parties... which included the both of them. Only corpses remained, underfed and lashed dry of blood, and the slavers were gone. The Oaf was my prime suspect at first, but he'd seemed less bothered at home than one should be for having just committed such a crime as murder – so I laughed off the thought, thinking some other cretin must have done it. Then I remembered I was supposed to be sad, and tried to cry – but no tears would flow. I'd been numbed to the sacrifice of the young, in my name but twisted, for the perverts who rotted the streets. I counted my time again: I was fourteen now, and had only one year left to go before I could return to what must have been a dusty mess, back at home. It was then, and only then, that I would be able to cry again.

The children never did calm down, and the three of them stayed spoiled for a very long time. The Sheller was the least of which, but had yet her way of bending ears, and left her small bedroom a big disaster. Her mother had taken to throwing out her things, but would then buy her even more the following month – and nothing would change. The Clamper had decided to bully his younger brother instead of me, knowing who was the most vulnerable in the room by his constant battles. Whatever was easiest to prey upon was his for the taking, it appeared. The two of them were turning into a strange duo of only one mind, which belonged first and foremost to the elder. The Tantrum was still only five years old – and he'd suffered just as much as the rest of The Collector's children, even if he barely knew his father enough to miss him. It was understandable, for all of them, to clench for their familial pains; although their coping methods warranted severe revision. The Sheller's father was another story altogether, and she often visited him... in the village jail. I never learned what he did, but she adored him for a very long time, and thought the world of him. The Tantrum had no such attachment to his own progenitor. In many ways, his older siblings, his mother, and I were the only role models he needed – and I was still trying desperately to escape, unable to find other lodging or work elsewhere. Though The Oaf attested that it was in fact, he himself, who was the greatest influence on the lad – I hoped to God that wasn't true, and swore under my breath for him saying it. It was just last year's Yule, during a harsh winter, when The Tantrum had been staying with me in my room while I read. He was climbing my legs, peeking out from under my desk, and trying out new words at my ears.
Then, suddenly, The Oaf BURST into the bedroom, and growled at him, "HEY!! YOU know you're not supposed to be in here. You were supposed to stay in the living room, YOU were TOLD!!"
I'd left the door ajar, and soon I'd regret that I hadn't locked it. The little man was standing next to me, and turned his head to see them – barely registering the tantrum that was his prime example, coming from The Oaf – the closest thing to a father he structurally had, even if he was actually a step-grandfather. The boy was already superior in that facet, when it came to throwing fits – and I believe The Oaf felt threatened for it. What he got from competing with a four year old was probably as much as he got from trying to oppress a cripple, I imagine. Lately he'd also been yelling down The Collector, who'd only supported him and done her best, simply for the silence of her young – as if she could possibly control such a crowd. They were, as far as 'controllable' goes, somewhere between a pissed-off goose and a tidal wave... and about as loud, when they wanted to be. The Oaf wanted only silence, so he could play with his jacks and coins in the living room; or read his hand-scripped horrors, which were short paragraphs of haunting poetry that were copied to about a hundred small pieces of paper each morn, and sold to whoever was first in line. He enjoyed them as much as I did, and I would never have seen them without his having stood there for them, for which I was actually (optimistically) grateful. He would also bring home printed etchings, which were carved first onto square blocks, dipped in ink, and then stamped onto cardstock. They depicted mighty heroes against desperate villains, or sexy barbarianess warriors fighting the forces of darkness. I was actually just as much of a fan, and he'd often pass these off to me when he was done admiring them. For this, I was able to tell him gratitude for the very first time, which I hoped would warm his heart in return. It was the only hobby he had that made him seem more human – and when I'd tried to connect with him on that level (to convince him to act nicer towards me), it was the only thing we could do together: enjoying and discussing these bombastic and comical, if not curt, works of art. They were a far better expenditure for him than beer and wanks in the alley, that was for sure. But he was possessive of them when they were still seen as valuable, and let none else have a look if it was his favourite piece. And, he'd lock up his games when he wasn't playing with them, to keep them safe from the little ones – but also, from me, who'd little else to do aside from evade him in the halls. Absent of the toys, it was like he'd just revert back to his old self, and become a threat again. Perhaps they brought out the child in him. He reveled in his ability to deny me that innocent fun, I think, because he was still waiting to see me break down for the less innocent kind, which I never would. He was as possessive of his toys and art-pieces as he was of his time... and especially his silence. He would sooner buy the children their own with oil earnings than let them get their grubby mitts on any of his. And I believe that was how he saw the entire house, as well.
The Rater, beside her secondary source of income, cried, "Come here, young one! Come with us!"
Well, it was Yule. Unlike the normal days, where The Tantrum and his sibs were a bundle of gnawing weasels trying to escape the same tube, he was actually feeling quite merry. His belly was full of cookies and cheese, and he'd had a nice hot cocoa with milk. Nobody else in the village had chocolate, it was a specialty The Rater had ordered in. It was like nothing I'd ever tasted, so bitter and delicious, and made the season come alive... even for me, in my wallowed misery. For him, it might as well have been the entire holiday to itself, in that one little cup. He was content. So the little tyke, caught in naught but a diaper, waddled over obediently. But it didn't matter. The Oaf had already made up his mind: the child was to be punished. He took out his belt, and folded it up in his hands. The brute who called himself "the man of the house" raised his arm, and lashed the poor wee bastard three times on the back. It was like the passion of the Goddamned Christ in there – little man was wailing with agony, shoulders seized upwards, cries unanswered by his so-called protectors. On his bare back, he was met with leather and solemn red streaks. The so-called 'Chief' was no longer extending his palm to the little ones, and now was raising only his fists and his belt. Some leader. And, there was an uncomfortable parallel there, somewhere, between the young teens in cages who'd been forced into depravity... and the four-year-old who'd been whipped on Yule. A theme was forming, and it wasn't a jolly carol.

When I later told The Collector, she seemed worried, but never said a word to her mother about it – at least not one that I'd been witness to. I imagined she'd probably downplay it anyway, as she often did, to falsely ease her daughter's nerve. The Rater would later claim that she couldn't remember the incident at all – and for a moment, I couldn't tell if she was lying to cover herself, or if she'd simply drank the memory away, forever.

I returned to the here and now, from that memory. After The Oaf's departure, things were settling again, as they always did once he'd stopped enflaming them for his own shout-stomping satisfaction. It was a hard day's shouting, full of pissing matches between the three of them, their spent mother, and their own overblown reactions. Finally tuckered out, the triple threats had cuddled up to their mother in her bed so she could read to them. They fell asleep in each other's arms. It was one of the most adorable things I'd ever seen, but I wasn't the type to invite that kind of thing for myself – I was too defensive because of their grandfather, who FINALLY, had managed to see himself divorced, and ventured once more to Arabia – possibly never to return. The Collector was doing better, having her monthly scowling and discipline budget evenly distributed across myself and The Rater quite evenly. It was The Collector and her wee ones which made the place bearable, despite their ungodly messes inside of it. With a buyer in talks, we would finally see the whole house taken off our hands – and I was approaching fourteen. One more year, and I'd inherit my father's home, once and for all. I was still trying my best to be obedient in the meantime, washing every dish and cleaning every floor, on schedule like clockwork. I'd become more reliable than The Rater's own count, and soon she showed me the trust I needed to set about my work of my own accord. No more monitoring, as long as the job was done – it was less work for her anyway, even if she'd found it fun, I think. That, and her opium dose was growing to match her pipeweed intake, and she was sleeping throughout the days. I had squashed myself down, to malleate into whatever was fair to ask of me. I was practically a butler for whoever needed anything, and I had barely a moment to myself between sleep. I'd steeled myself against all of the abuse, all of the demands, all of the critique, and all of the naysaying. I was a knight in flesh armor.

...okay, don't picture that. I'll work on my phrasing.