Malfaire Burns struggled to focus through gummy eyes as tainted morning light bled through the sullied window. For a fleeting moment relief soothed him. At last. Free of the taunting whispers that harried him from the edges of his dreams. The morning sunlight banished the lingering memories of a disturbed sleep to the dusty corners of his mind. Yet it also awoke the reality of his life, and his gratitude vanished.

The room was disturbingly still. Eerie. Stifled. Opening the shutter above would only exacerbate the pungent smell of rotting fish heads wafting from the fishmongers across the lane.

Malfaire rolled tentatively towards the edge of his bunk, desperately trying to avoid eliciting a creak from the aged boards beneath him. It was always best to be cautious. The fresh lacerations on his back suddenly bit as he moved; renewing the nightmare of the savage thrashing he had endured the night before.

It had been worse than usual. The anger that always festered in his father had erupted beyond its normal storm, into a cyclone of hatred, causing Malfaire to fear for his life. Evidently, he had survived, and more than likely wept himself to a fitful sleep, although he did not remember his last waking moments.

Still a new day had dawned, bringing with it new hope or so Malfaire pretended. Perhaps if luck was on the wind, his father would be passed out somewhere, preferably far away in a gutter with only his whipping belt for company. Perhaps a wagon had run over him in the dark, ending his bitter existence forever. He wished for such things often. Hollow wishes he was unsure he wanted granted in the reality of morning. Wishes he would have gladly traded his soul for during the torment of the beatings.

He padded gingerly across the bedroom, surreptitiously avoiding the rotted floorboards that would snap under his weight. Not that he cared if he added to the substantial damage already visible in the room. His only concern was to remain silent in case his father was home. He swiftly searched through a small pile of clothes in the corner for a clean shirt. After sniffing three and discarding them back to the pile he finally settled on one that he had worn two days previously. It was the least stained, and sported only one hole beneath the armpit.

Apart from scattered clothing, rags by most people’s standards, there was little else in the room except for the bunk and thin mattress that oozed flock from its many holes. Malfaire poked some of the filling home before he lifted the mattress and carefully searched underneath it with his hand. His fingers closed reverently upon a loose leaf of paper that he always kept carefully hidden. He held it sadly, as he did every morning. A reminder of how things had once been.

His father would be furious if he knew he still harboured the picture. But he refused to surrender his memories for anyone. The artist had been very talented, or so Malfaire believed for he knew little of such things. The lines of pencil drawn long ago faithfully represented the kind curves of his mothers’ cheek. It captured that special look only a mother can provide to a child, a look that offered warmth, love and a never ending promise of devotion.

She had been kind and gentle, humming lullabies to ease the fear of the darkness, a darkness he ironically now embraced, at least in waking moments. For his father easily gave up the chase in the dark. It was easier to slump back in his chair and wildly bellow his dead sons’ name, as if by calling Yourn loudly enough, he would elicit an answer.

Malfaire hated Yourn as much as his father did. It was Yourn who had killed his mother. It was Yourn who had driven his father to drink. It was Yourn that his father beat in his drunken confusion, but it was Malfaire that received the blows.

Yourn had only breathed long enough to be named by his mother’s dying breath before exiting the world and taking Malfaire’s happy life with him. Malfaire had lost his mother and brother in that instant, and he had steadily lost his father from that day forward.

He took a deep breath and replaced the picture under his mattress, preparing to leave the comparative safety of the bedroom. Cracking open the door he peeped out hoping his father was out. His heart sank.

Lochey Burns lounged across the only chair in the tiny living room, his head arched back, dribble escaping his wide open mouth. A suspicious yellowy substance soiled his clothes that even from a small distance emitted the unmistakable acerbic odour of vomit. A dropped bottle lay at his feet, cupping a shallow pool of amber liquid: the only escapee from the previous nights capacious consumption of liquor.

Malfaire stared from behind the door, feeling the roughness of his shirt upon the open cuts in his back. How helpless his father looked now. How sweet it would be to repay the courtesy he had been shown so often.

He toyed with the satisfaction of stuffing a sock into his father’s gaping mouth and watching him slowly suffocate. That would be a slow painful death. But it was too dangerous. Lochey would awaken and dish out a fresh thrashing. Besides, he deserved more. Better to bind him while he slept and take his revenge at leisure. The wild fantasies beckoned as he silently watched. The crisp cut of the belt still cracked in his ears. A debt was owed and it would be repaid. Yet each fleeting fantasy had a weakness.

Far better to do the house chores and bide his time a little longer, until the day came when he, Malfaire Burns was the stronger, when he would relish the pleasure of watching his father cower before him. During the beatings, he would imagine that day. Knew it would come with absolute certainty. He would rise up and take the belt from his father, and use against him. The punished would become the punisher. At those times, the anger burned within, forging his resolve into iron clad belief. But the waiting dogged him. For the days towards triumph passed with excruciating slowness. He was fourteen annuals, although small for his age. But he would be old enough and big enough soon. Now, staring out from behind his bedroom door, such things seemed but a dream.

He began cleaning the kitchen as quietly as possible whilst wondering how much longer he would have to live like this. Greasy pots and pans lined the dirty benches. Malfaire cleaned them as best he could, his only break replenishing the water barrel from the community well. Once he had space to work with, he lit the stove and began to make some breakfast. All the while Malfaire kept a careful eye on his father who continued to snore fitfully.

The smell of simmering oats soon filled the dull little room and Malfaire began to relax a little as he stirred the pot. His father would be pleased, to see the kitchen cleared and breakfast ready.

‘Liar!’ roared his dreamy father. Malfaire turned in shock to see his father, eyes closed, but his body moving restlessly in his sleep. Relieved he returned to stirring the porridge and knocked a knife onto the floor. The loud clatter abruptly woke Lochey. He shot out of his chair to stare around the room in a discontented daze. Finally focussing on Malfaire his eyes narrowed.

‘Waz goin on boy?’ His hand was already moving towards his unclasped belt. Malfaire couldn’t remember when his name had become boy, but his father never referred to him by name anymore.

He swallowed as he quickly poured a bowlful of porridge and offered it meekly. ‘I made you porridge father.’ Lochey scowled at his son for a few moments before snatching the bowl.

‘Spoon?’

Malfaire fetched a battered wooden spoon and his father sat at the rickety table and began slurping his breakfast noisily. After several spoonfuls he paused to look around the kitchen. ‘So you finally did your chores.’

‘Yes father,’ replied Malfaire as he fetched a broom to sweep the floor.

Lochey nodded and returned his attention to his bowl. ‘This ain’t as bad as usual.’

It was as close to a compliment as he would get. Some of the tension eased from Malfaire’s shoulders as he swept, listening to Lochey’s continued slurps.

‘I’m not a bad man boy.’ It was said quietly, barely audible above the brooms rustle. Malfaire tightened his grip upon on the broom, but continued as if he had not heard.

‘A boy needs discipline.’ Slurp. ‘My father was hard on me n’all.’ Slurp.

Malfaire kept his eyes lowered. He dared not betray the anger beginning to burn inside. The only thing more obnoxious than his fathers’ drunken beatings was their false justification. They came rarer these days. In times long gone Lochey would come to him the morning after, tearful and apologetic. Promising it would never happen again. But it did. It always did. And it always would. It would keep happening again and again until Malfaire stopped it.

He had played with the idea of running away of course. Many times. On several occasions he had packed what little possession she had and been on the verge of leaving. Something held him back. Malfaire believed it was his vision of revenge. And to an extent it was.

Lochey had once been an honourable man. A bodyguard for the elderly Baron Fulheart. When age finally conquered the Baron’s will, Lochey brought his family to a safer life far in the north, away from any enemies with long memories. He had taught Malfaire the worth of valour from a young age, and of the need to make one’s own way in the world.

Something Malfaire intended to. First on his list was to be free of his father. But on his own terms, by his own choice. He forgot the whispers that urged him to stay in those moments of choice. The whispers that urged him to stay. The whispers that spied on his dreams. They promised him much would come if he listened. And he unknowingly had.

Slurp. ‘Y’all be the stronger for it boy.’ Slurp. ‘Thank me even.’ Slurp. ‘When y’re a man n’that.’

Malfaire kept his eye on the broom as he reswept the floor. Lochey usually said nothing after a beating now. Pretended they didn’t happen. And Malfaire preferred it that way. Lies were of no comfort to him anymore. But he had to stay and listen, knowing he would never be grateful for anything his father told him.

A sudden thump on the table caused Malfaire to fumble his hold on the broom, almost dropping it.

‘Ya list’nin’ t’me boy?’

‘Yes father.’ He dared a look at Lochey, who immediately looked away from his son and tipped his bowl up to scoop the last of his porridge. Suddenly his eyes widened and his jaw firmed in fury. Malfaire froze. He didn’t know what he had done, or if he had done anything at all. That was immaterial, he would be blamed anyway.

Alarm raced through him as Lochey slowly raised his spoon from the bowl, revealing a black beetle, it’s legs outstretched in a futile death kick as it floated belly up in the spoon.

‘I’m sorry father, I didn’t see it,’ pleaded Malfaire backing away until he felt the cold press of the kitchen bench touch his tender back. He feared a similar end to the beetle may be in store. Lochey was already on his feet pulling his belt out as he walked menacingly towards him.

‘B’in laughin’ have you boy? Think it’s funny to be putting beetles in my brekf’st do ya?’

‘No father, I didn’t see it. Honestly I wouldn’t…’

‘I’ll whip respect int’ya yet. Ya wretched yellabelly.’ His voice was low and moderated. Something Malfaire feared even more than the enraged shouts. The beatings hurt more when Lochey was in control enough to aim well.

‘It was an accident! It must’ve been in th’oats, I didn’t see it father please – believe me.’

Malfaire knew pleading was useless, as he backed further into the corner, bracing himself for the familiar bitter taste of his father’s belt. He bent over the bench to protect his face and his hand brushed the knife. He seized it.

Lochey stopped, surprised to see a knife in his son’s hand. His nostrils flared at the outrage of being challenged.

‘Stab me now would ya?’

The wild eyes of his father told him immediately to appease him and drop the knife, yet Malfaire was too scared to release it. He gripped it even tighter, bringing it closer to his chest, his whole body quaking.

Lochey perhaps mistaking the movement for defiance savagely swung the belt in a wide arc. The buckle whistled brightly as it sliced through the air, its song ending with a harsh crack as it bit into Malfaire’s tender shoulder.

‘Argh!’ cried Malfaire as fresh pain exploded across his back.

‘Is that funny boy?!’ yelled Lochey over Malfaires cry. The belt recoiled ready to strike again as Malfaire flailed about wildly trying to move out of the belts reach. He was trapped in the corner, there was no where to run. Forgetting he held the knife he violently threw his arms in front of him with a panicked notion of deflecting the belts next swing.

He struck something, he heard a cry, there was water dripping onto the floor. Oddly it was red. Lochey staggered back, clutching at his arm. Water dripped from the knife he still held fast. Not water, blood.

‘Father!?’ cried Malfaire as he dropped the knife.

‘You will pay for that boy,’ threatened Lochey through gritted teeth.

Malfaire didn’t stop to think. He dived to the floor, sailing past his father’s lumbering bulk. Scrambling to his feet he burst for the front door as his father bellowed after him.

‘Come back ’ere! They’ll be hell ta pay if you don’t sonny.’

Malfaire was already in the laneway, frantically running from the taunting voice that pursued him.