Flash Fiction Friday: Olive Oil

The smack to his face like an echo in a cave. Could be seconds or minutes or hours ago. Time cannot heal these wounds. No.

[tw: violence, abusive parents]

He lies prostrate on the front doorstep. Over him the Father’s demanding an answer to a question he can’t comprehend. He can make out 'did you’ and then ‘my son’ but the rest isn’t coming no matter how hard he tries.

The smack to his face like an echo in a cave. Could be seconds or minutes or hours ago. Wouldn’t matter. Time cannot heal these wounds. No.

Warm red welling up in the ear closest to the ground, it feels nicer than he expects. Like the olive oil his mother used to flush out his ears when he was a kid.

Spit sprinkling on his face till he has to turn his eyes to the concrete and let his afro take it, the father growling the same words. He can make out three whole syllables between ‘did you’ and ‘my son’. Censored out by his own mind, maybe because he can’t bear the truth. Did you what my son. Did you.

When he gets no answer the Father kicks him in the back. The kid’s lucky he’s only wearing socks. Bright red cotton’s the first thing the kid noticed about the Father, when the door opened and he expected bare feet two sizes smaller.

Could be seconds ago. Could be minutes.

The blows gain pace. When he hears a rib crack he tries not to cry out. Tries to focus on the warmth flowing out his ear. Pretends it’s the kisses the Son placed on his earlobe, the kisses of a hound’s tongue. Sloppy, starved.

Both of them breathing heavy, the Father wheels around him and kicks him in the stomach. Now he’s wheezing for air. Practically inhales the spiders on the ground, their silken traps destroyed by his face.

The Father yells the question because maybe it’s the only way.

Are you fucking deaf. I asked did you sell dope to my son.

He can’t answer yes or no. Moving his head makes his ears ring. But he smiles at the ground and waits for the blow that will put him to sleep.