CHAPTER THREE #2
I rolled at the last second, James’ stick landing inches to my left with a loud snap. There was a collective gasp as I stood, leaves tangled in my hair and dangling off my jumper, a smudge of dirt on my cheek.
Take his sword and slam it into his throat.
The voice was soft, coaxing, almost melodic. It was not a voice I had heard before, but the presence was familiar. The mirror flashed behind my eyelids. Black eyes, the flesh melting from my face, the pool of insects devouring me. It was the Devil. He was here.
I ran. I ran without looking back. I did not stop until I reached the library, safe amongst the shelves where I could hide from James and, more importantly, the Devil.
It was there, where I sat between two shelves, that I realised I was not the hero I liked to pretend I was. I was only a coward.
***
I was weary of the Devil returning that afternoon when I entered the House on North Lane. He did, but not in the way I had anticipated. The moment I stepped through the door, I was greeted by earth-shattering screams and distraught, violent sobbing. The former my brother, the latter my mother.
Alarmed, I dropped my bag in the entryway and followed the sound of my brother’s distressed wails. He was on the floor of his bedroom, in only a diaper, his face and chest covered in what was either food, vomit, or both.
My mother was on the other side of the room, back against the wall, knees hugged to her chest. Her shoulders shook, hair spilling over her hands that clawed at her swollen eyes.
This time, I could not run. This time, I had to be the hero.
I scooped Auden up into my arms and carried him into the bathroom, carefully removing his nappy before lowering him into the small tub to fill it with warm, soapy water.
“Shh, Auddie, it’s okay,” I tried to soothe him, reaching for a clean cloth to wipe the food—or vomit—off his body.
He flinched at the sensation, threatening to release another scream when I reached for his bath toys to distract him.
It worked, giving me enough time to clean him up and dress him in a red and yellow Winnie-the-Pooh romper with a honey pot stamped on the back.
His crying ceased, but his eyes remained red and swollen. With his security blanket hugged to his chest, I carried him to his bed and set him down, stroking the hair out of his eyes as he watched me with big, unblinking eyes.
“Are you feeling better now?” I asked him.
He dipped his head in a nod as his eyelids fluttered shut, his face softening, all tension fleeing his body. With Auden settled, it was time to face my mother.
Her shoulders had stilled, though her face remained hidden beneath her untamed hair. I approached her, slowly, and reached for one of her hands. She flinched, as though scorched by flame, and lifted her head to look at me, tear-stained face twisted in anger.
“Demon,” she hissed. “Do not touch me!”
I withdrew, hands falling at my sides as I whispered, “It’s me, Mumma. Augustus.”
“Augustus?” my mother repeated. “How dare you say his name, demon! I know what you are!”
Dread carved into my chest, the memory of the Devil’s melodic voice replaying in my head. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
A cold laugh escaped her throat, eyes wild as she reached for my wrist, fingernails digging into bone as she rose to her feet.
“Do not act a fool!” she snapped, hauling me toward the door as Auden stirred in his sleep. “You have no place here! No place!”
She threw me out into the hallway and slammed the door shut in my face, her footsteps shuffling toward the bed where she scolded Auden for waking.
I stood there, outside the door, massaging my wrist as I tried to process the words my mother spat in my face. What had I done wrong? How did she know about the Devil inside my head?
Knowing I would not get an answer until this strange mood passed, I sulked toward my own bedroom, peeling off my uniform in preparation for a shower.
It was only as I reached for a comfortable pair of grey sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt that my gaze fell upon the crucifix above my bed. It had been turned upside down.
***
Silence was the punishment for my unknown crime. My mother refused to speak to me, and although I scoured my brain, replaying every word that rolled off my tongue, I could not determine what I had done to deserve the label ‘demon’.
Guilt hung over me like a storm cloud, shadowing me in darkness with the threat of lashing rain. I was desperate to end the days of silence, to make my mother smile again. But that meant I had to apologise, even if I did not know what for. And I had the perfect idea.
Crayons lined my bedroom floor, a piece of white paper gradually transforming with colour as I prepared the ‘apology gift’ for my mother. I drew often—sometimes animals, sometimes a knight on his noble steed, sometimes my favourite superheroes. But, more often than not, I drew my family.
Evidence of these drawings were scattered on my desk, special ones selected to hang on the refrigerator for a week before they were thrown away.
Satisfied with the drawing of my mother and I holding hands, I slipped it under my parents’ bedroom door, hoping that once she laid eyes on the two of us smiling, she would open the door and welcome me back into her arms. She never did.
I waited, and waited, and waited. But the door never opened. Instead, I heard the sound of paper tearing in two, my heart tearing along with it.
The following day, as I stood in my bedroom, bottom lip between my teeth, I decided that in order to return to my mother’s good graces, I needed something more powerful to express my love and remorse.
My gaze darted from wall to wall, searching for inspiration. Those said walls captured my attention, birthing an idea that would show my mother how much I loved her, how much she meant to me. And maybe, just maybe, she would look upon me with fondness once more.
The idea was disastrous. Naturally, I did not realise this until it was too late. As I reached for my crayons and approached the blank wall, I thought of my mother and everything she loved—everything that would make her love me again.
An hour of drawing resulted in a wall decorated with St Augustine’s church, my parents hand-in-hand as they stood in their finest Sunday clothes.
A row of red roses—my mother's favourite flower—led to Auden and I swinging on the old tire that hung from the tree beside the statue of Mary.
We all wore identical smiles. A picture-perfect family.
I studied my artwork, proud of what I had been able to create with nothing but an eight-pack of crayons. It was not my best work, but it was from the heart.
Crayons abandoned, I emerged from my bedroom, eager to announce the surprise I had for my mother. She was seated at the dining table, wrapped in a brown cardigan with a cup of tea in her hands, eyes glued on her computer screen.
“...and it is important you emphasise that everything, everything, in your home is yours, not theirs,” a voice said from the computer.
A man in a black suit spoke to my mother through the screen, a wooden cross swinging from his neck as he paced back and forth.
“Your child is living in your home, under your roof, and they must obey your commands. Just like we are living in God’s creation and must obey His commands. ”
“Mumma?”
She paused the video and turned to appraise me with suspicion. “What?”
“I have something to show you!”
She waved me away dismissively, attention returning to the video on her screen.
“It’s a drawing!” I added, “a present!”
With a long, drawn-out sigh, she shut down her computer and followed me toward my bedroom.
I pushed open the door with a wide smile, confident I would be praised with a ‘Wow! This beautiful’ or an ‘Augustus, you have made Mummy very happy.’
You could probably guess what I was met with instead when my mother’s eyes landed on the drawing. What you probably did not anticipate, however, was that the drawing I had left the room with was not the drawing I now walked into.
The church was engulfed in flames. My mother, my father, Auden—all gone as though scrubbed clean. In their place, I dominated the scene, eyes as black as night, a crimson river pouring from my eyes.
There was a gasp, a lingering silence, and then…chaos.
“AUGUSTUS SAINT!” Knuckles met the back of my head with a loud crack, two crayons snapping beneath my bare feet as I stumbled forward. “WHAT IS THIS?”
My bottom lip trembled as I scratched the back of my head, vision blurring with unshed tears. “I… I don’t… I don’t know. I didn’t draw this!”
“How dare you lie to me?!” my mother snapped, raising her hand to strike me again, only to lower it at the last second. “You are going to clean this up right now!”
Tears rolled down my face freely as I glanced in between my mother and the drawing that was not mine. I had wanted to make her happy, but instead I had made everything worse.
“Stop crying!” She gripped my face in one hand, fingernails stabbing into my cheeks as she forced our eyes to meet. “Are you a baby? No, you’re not. Stop crying. Clean this up!”
Sadness twisted into anger, a howling beast with its teeth sinking into my thundering heart. It needed to be released, its heat burning through my veins.
My mother’s grip loosened, and without a word, I reached down to collect my crayons, throwing them against the wall with a cry of frustration.
I regretted it the moment the Devil’s laughter infiltrated my mind, sharp talons clawing at my skull.
“Mumma I’m sor—”
Her hand met my cheek, silencing my apology before it could leave my tongue.
She dragged me out of the room with a bruising grip around my wrist. I screamed, I cried, I thrashed around wildly in an attempt to tear free.
But it was no use. We reached the kitchen where she threw me to the tiled floor, the back of my head smacking against the drawers with a sickening crack.
Dazed, I watched my mother open and shut cupboard doors, muttering incoherently as she pulled out a bag of cable ties.
The Devil crouched beside me, his expression hidden behind blurred features.
Is that it? he asked with that same melodic voice he’d used when James attacked me. Is that all the fight left in you?
My mother hauled me to my feet, shoving me into the linen cupboard amongst towels, bed sheets and bathmats. She restrained my wrists together with a cable tie, its teeth biting into my skin.
There was barely enough space to breathe, yet alone stand, but the door clicked shut in my face before I could utter a word of complaint.
The walls were too close. Crushing me. Breath evaded my lungs. Panic spread. I tried to get out, but the scraping of a chair indicated I was enclosed in.
“Let me out!” I cried. “Mumma! Mumma! Let me out!”
“Not until you spend some time reflecting on your behaviour.”
“Mumma! Please! I’m sorry! Mumma!”
I sobbed. I sobbed until I exhausted myself, collapsing onto one of the shelves, curling into a small ball to fit amongst the sheets.
I don’t remember how long I was confined in that small cupboard for, but it felt like an eternity. And as I drifted off into a fitful sleep, a voice right next to my ear whispered, You deserve this.