A Figure In The Fog
The town of Arthur's Wake was dying. At least, that's what Jamie's dad always said. The man tended to wax philosophical when he was drunk, which was often. Jamie would silently sit at the dinner table and listen to the man ramble on about how things had been different when he had been growing up, how back then an honest day's work actually got you something. Jamie's mother would sit quietly at the other end of the table from his father saying nothing, gaze firmly fixed on an empty space six inches in front of her face, only stirring to refill plates or glasses or to clear the dishes. Many days her unmoving, hollow eyes were ringed with various shades of purple and yellow. On those they weren't, the bruises were simply hiding, concealing themselves in places less visible.
Once last year his father had been in a particularly black drunk. Profits at the factory were down. Rumor had it that the foreman would be releasing a handful of workers by the end of the week and Jamie's dad reckoned he might be one of them. Jamie had lain in the bedroom he shared with his brother staring at the ceiling for as long as he was able, tears quietly streaming down his face, listening to the shouts through the thin walls accompanied by heavy thumps and soft moans. Finally, unable to bear the sounds any more he got out of bed and retrieved his little league bat from where it rested in the corner. He made it to the door when he felt a small hand tug on his pajama sleeve.
Jamie! Don't go, Jamie!
Shut up, Lester!
No, no, Jamie...don't leave me!
Get off!
Jamie, he'll hurt you!
Get off me! Go hide in the closet if you're scared.
No, no, no...
Jamie pulled his sleeve from Lester's grip and gave him a slight shove, enough to knock him back onto the bed. The little boy sat there, pitifully sobbing as Jamie slipped through the door. Noiselessly he crept down the hallway towards the living room holding the bat cocked the way his coach had taught. Jamie carefully poked his head around the corner, eyes growing wide at the scene that unfolded before him. His father stood in the middle of the room a half empty beer can in one hand, his belt in the other. His mother cowered in the far corner, hands held feebly in front of her, one eye already swollen shut. A red rage overtook Jamie, the emotion more powerful than anything he'd felt in his young life. In that moment he made the decision to kill his father.
He held his breath, stalking ever closer as the man took a long pull from his drink. Whether he was warned by the slight widening of his wife's good eye, or through some devilish intuition, Jamie's father turned just as Jamie raised his weapon. Screaming in anger and frustration Jamie swung as hard as he could, only to have the bat plucked from his hands as easily as a child pulling the wings off a fly.
You little shit.
The slap hit Jamie hard enough to see stars, his head snapping backwards, and he stumbled against the wall. The next blow crushed the air from his chest and he crumpled to the ground gasping for breath.
Think you're man enough to take a swing at me, huh?
Jamie tasted blood and heard a dull crack when his father kicked him in the ribs. He curled into a ball as the blows continued to fall.
See how you like a taste of your own medicine, boy.
Jamie raised his arm to defend himself as the bat came down, smashing against his forearm. He screamed as he felt the bone snap.
Don't huh? We're just getting started.
Jamie's eyes widened in terror as his father raised the bat above his head ready to deliver a crushing blow. Suddenly his mother was there, pinning Jamie to the ground, shielding him with her own body.
