Salamander

Chapter One: The Horse Son

Chapter One

I stood in front of the mirror, running my fingers up my torso until I found the new set of welts and bruises. They throbbed in unison with my rapid heartbeat, bringing with them an agonizing ache that caused my eyes to burn with pain. I brushed my hand across my back, grimacing when I felt the warm stickiness of blood smear against my skin. It was probably oozing from one of the cuts caused by my father’s whip. They were meant for carriage drivers to control their horses, but to my father, I guess I was no better than a horse. No better than an animal.

            I brushed my brown hair back over my head, damp with cold sweat. That had been the worst of my father’s beatings; by the way he had struck me with the whip, I was almost certain that he had been aiming to kill me. But he eventually stopped, leaving me to walk over to my room to stay in solitary confinement just before the festival.

            Why had he been angry in the first place? I couldn’t even remember through the intense pain that coursed throughout my body. Just as I was contemplating seeing a physician before the festival, a knock sounded from the door.

            It was a tentative, feminine knock. I could tell it was my mother before she called out to me: “Alan?”

            Not wanting her to see the full extent of my injuries, I quickly pulled my shirt over my head. My muscles screamed in protest, but I forced my arms through the baggy, white sleeves, hoping that the blood wouldn’t stain the fine linen. “What?”

            She entered the room, her hands clasped against her stomach. Her weary, blue eyes searched my face, as if she was trying to understand the full extent of my pain. But she knew how I felt – I wasn’t the only one who had witnessed my father’s wrath first-hand. She didn’t say anything, and I didn’t care. There was nothing to be said.

            I turned back to the mirror, staring at my mother through the reflection. At a glance, one might not be able to distinguish the features that lay beneath her wrinkles. They might just see rolls of leathery skin that stretched down to a thin neck. But after further inspection, they would see the frowning mouth, the hooked nose, and the furrowed eyebrows. Her looks were enough for people to realize that she was a bundle of anxiety ready to explode.

            I didn’t know what possessed her to enter my room shortly after I had been beaten. As I said, my father had put me in “solitary confinement”.

            “You shouldn’t be here,” I said.

            “You’re my son.” She looked over her shoulder, making sure that my father wasn’t striding down the hall. When she decided it was safe to remain in my room, she let out a shaky sigh. “I’ll see you whenever I want.”

            “Not without receiving a couple whips across the back,” I murmured darkly.

            My mother stared at me, arms across her chest, back arched upwards. Her jaw was set, and I could see that she was chewing the inside of her cheek.      

            We stood there in silence, as if one of us were waiting for the other to talk. Eventually, I turned to my mother and let out a painful breath. “Why don’t we just leave?” I asked with a voice so soft I was almost sure my mother hadn’t understood me.

            But she knew the question all too well; from the way my lips moved, she knew what I had asked. She looked out the window, the warped view of the townsfolk preparing for the festival down at the beach visible through the glass. “You know we can’t,” she finally said in a hesitant tone. I knew she wanted to run away just as bad as I did, but something was holding her back. And that thing was the love for my father.