Mother's Got A Whip

PART ONE: ORDER

The eternal in woman leads us on.

– Wolfgang Von Goethe

"Chorus Mysticus," Faust Part 2

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Keep turned towards me thy munificence

So that my soul which Thou has remedied

May please Thee when it quits the bonds of sense.

– Dante Alighieri

Paradisio, The Divine Comedy

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PART I

ORDER

1

It was evening. It was according to the grandfather clock in the corner, Six-thirty. Its ticking echoed throughout the entire room. The house, but for the muted sounds of the evening meal, was silent.

The house was a network of hallways and rooms. The hallways were perpetually dark and thick with dust. Most of the rooms were now unused, boarded shut. On all of the houses three floors only the front sections were in use. From the front-most main hall only the darkened silhouettes of hallways were visible, leading back into the unplumbed regions of the house.

Robin Smythe looked up from his plate of asparagus at his father, who sat at the far end of the table: black suit, thin white hair. His eyes were blue and cold; his features looked as if they had been carved out of stone. He ranted and raved about the Devil and demons and incubi always trying to tempt human beings into unnatural and mortal sin for hours on end. Stern and aloof in mien and tremendous in his rage, he was the patriarch of the family and Robin knew that he was not the only one who feared him. Robin tried to remember a time when Father had shown affection or compassion to anyone—a vain attempt.

He turned his gaze upon Mother, who sat at the opposite end of the table, by far the youngest of Robin's elders, though he was not certain of her exact age. Her soft black hair pulled up tightly in a bun, framing her smooth, pale face. Her lips were full and red, her eyes dark and luminous, yet to Robin she resembled a finely carved marble statue.

On the other side of the table across from Robin, sat Uncle Hiram and Aunt Rowana, gray-haired and silent, their eyes downcast as they ate. The table's centerpiece was a large upright silver crucifix, surrounded by a platter of boiled potatoes, a platter of roast beef, and a dish of asparagus.

Robin watched Mother as she ate. She raised her head and returned his gaze. He looked down. Suddenly Father was at his side, staring down at him.

"What is the trouble, son?" Father asked, his voice hard and grating.

"Nothing, Father," Robin replied as respectfully as he could.

"Why are you not eating your vegetables, son?"

"I don't like them, Father," Robin answered, immediately wishing he had not.

Father's face flushed. "You ungrateful little bastard," he bellowed.

He yanked the fork roughly from Robin's hand and after scooping up a forkful of asparagus, rammed it viciously into Robin's mouth. He repeated this procedure again and again, holding the boy's head steady with his other hand. Father thrust the food in faster than Robin could swallow.

Robin tried desperately to jerk his head away, but could not escape Father's vice-like grip. Father flung the fork to the side and knocked Robin over backwards with a hard push. Robin jumped to his feet, burning with a rage he could not control.