THE END OF our story happened in the autumn of 2001, and that is where Will’s life, as opposed to his physical existence, truly begins. He wasn’t quite seven, but knew what to expect—starvation, beatings, or a new, more hideous form of punishment. Most of the time, he was able to anticipate what would happen next.
And so, the summer faded away, as did Will’s enthusiasm.
This day began like every other. He hadn’t eaten in three.
Because the beginning of the autumn term was only a week away, all hope of being fed had evaporated. As always, during dinner, he sat on the steps, listening intently to the sounds of his family eating. He let his head fall forward, and must have fallen asleep, for he was startled awake by an angry voice, saying: “Come on, Will!”
At the first syllable, his head snapped back to centre. He leapt to his feet, dashing up the stairs. He prayed for even the smallest bite of food, if it would soothe the aching of his stomach. He cleared the table at a feverish pace, and then returned to the kitchen.
His father took up a hunting knife, gleaming on the counter, and whispered: “If you’re not done in twenty minutes, you’ll find yourself at the other end of this knife.”
But his words had no effect. This wasn’t the first time he had threatened Will with death. He ran to the sink, and the clock ticked down. When he glanced up, his father had begun to spin the blade in one hand. His eyes were glazed over, and something deep inside of Will urged that something terrible was about to happen. He turned back to the sink and scrubbed furiously, with all his might. The dishes piled up in the drainboard, until there was only one left. But just as he finished it:
Tick. Tick. Time.
That was when he saw a blur of silver rushing forward. A sharp pain thrust upward into his stomach as the blade pierced his abdomen. He shouted, and the knife slid out, clattering to the floor. He stood there for a moment, in a puddle of blood. Then his legs fell out from under him, and he descended into darkness, all-consuming and infinite.
When he regained consciousness, it was to feel a vital warmth flowing from his abdomen. It took a moment to realise where he was: propped up against the toilet, seated on the bathroom floor. His eyes slid downward. Henry was on his knees beside him, hastily applying a thick fold of gauze to Will’s stomach, where dark blood flowed in long, thin lines to the floor. The gauze was plastered down, then a white bandage wrapped round his torso to hold it in place. He knew it was delusional, but he couldn’t help hoping that this was somehow an accident; that his father hadn’t meant to hurt him. He forgave him silently, too faint to speak. Then he returned to the darkness.
There was no remorse in his father’s eyes as he stood and washed the blood from his hands, telling Will he had fifteen minutes to finish the washing up, or he would come back and put him out of his misery. Will shook his head. At first, he didn’t understand. Then he did: he wasn’t to acknowledge what happened, and neither would anyone else. There was no time for self-pity; no time to die. He rose, swaying, and made his way to the kitchen. With every step, pain ripped through his ribs and blood soaked the bandage. By the time he reached the sink, he was bent over and panting.
He looked down and saw droplets of red staining his feet. He wished he could escape, but the searing pain brought him back to reality every time.
He washed the dishes as quickly as his injury would allow. Moving his arms resulted in a sharp pain above his stomach. If he stepped from the wash basin to the rinse one, another coursed through his body, so he limited how often he did, feeling his strength circling the drain. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and succumb to his injuries, but he kept moving.
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By standing on his toes and leaning against the counter, the pressure on his abdomen was relieved. But after drying the plates came putting them back in the cabinets, which were high above his head. Reaching up to them would cause unspeakable pain. Holding a small saucer, Will rose as far as he could and lifted his arms above his head, then abruptly dropped them, pleating to the ground. By then, his jumper was stiff and saturated with blood. His hands closed round the edge of the countertop, but before he could do it himself, a pair of gentle hands helped him up.
Stealing a glance out the window, Will could see the twilight being overtaken by the same darkness that filled his soul. Before he knew it, he was being lifted and carried outside, set down on his own two feet along the dusty drive. His siblings looked him over, but were far more interested in their mother, who was lighting the bonfire for Guy Fawkes Day. Henry held him by the shoulders as it burst to life, and they were blinded by the dazzling light. For a moment, he thought he detected a faint trace of his father’s cologne, which he used to wear every day, but hadn’t in a very long time. He stepped toward the fire, feeling a warmth spark within—one which he thought had been buried forever.
Then the East wind blew, and the fire burned brighter. Will turned toward the retreating sun. It had been a lifetime since he’d watched the sunset. He closed his eyes, soaking in the last few minutes of heat. For a fleeting moment, the pain disappeared. He was warm, and unbearably alive.
BACK IN THE cave, he laid on the floor, trying to ignore the pain, but it was impossible. It raced through his every muscle and vein until exhaustion took over, and he drifted off to sleep.
Throughout the night, he was plagued by nightmares. He startled himself, waking in a cold sweat. From the shadows came a figure so frightening he couldn’t keep from crying out. But it was only his mother, who applied a cold compress to his forehead and gave him pills to lower his fever.
Soon, he drifted back to sleep, and with it came a dream of hot red rain, falling in thick sheets. He was soaked to the bone. When he woke, his hands were crusted with blood. The shirt he was wearing was dripping with it, and so was his face. He looked up at the sound of a voice calling his name. Will had expected sympathy, as there had been the night before, but it was empty hope, yet again. In a cold voice, he was told it was time to clear the table.
That was when he knew that nothing had changed.
THREE DAYS after the incident, Will continued to feel feverish.
The slit in his abdomen opened again that night. Quietly, he crept to the sink. Using the most sterile flannel he could find, he cracked open the tap just enough to allow a thin stream of water to pass through, spilling onto the cloth. He sat down and removed his shirt. He touched the wound, flinching at the sudden, white-hot flare of pain. He drew in a breath and pinched it closed. The pain was so completely inhuman that he threw his head back against the wall, almost bludgeoning himself against it.
When he looked down at his stomach again, he saw thick white liquid beginning to well around the slash. Will was far too young to know what an infection was, but he did know that the wound was well on its way to becoming deadly—and, for the first time in a long time, he was right. He started up the stairs to ask for help in swabbing the wound, but when he stood, he found himself hesitating. He was almost seven. He knew how to clean a wound. He wanted desperately to be in control of himself, and not to rely on anyone else, nor allow them any measure of dominion over him.
He wet the flannel once more and brought it down to the gash. He paused before touching it, hands trembling. Tears streamed down his face and splashed upon the floor. He moved quickly, before the nerve slipped away. He took another cloth, folded it in four, and tucked it into his mouth, focusing all his attention on dabbing at the infected fluid, until blood seeped through. The pain was almost more than he could stand. Teeth clamped tightly down on the flannel, his screaming was muffled. When he had finished, a river of tears soaked his chest.
Fearing that he would be caught, he cleared the mess he’d made, then returned to his place on the lowest step. Before he sat down, he checked the bandage. Only small droplets of red had escaped from the wound to the dressing. He willed it to mend, although he had no say in such things. It would heal eventually, and with this knowledge came a great fatigue. He slumped forward into a dark, heavy sleep.