"Straight to your room.” My mother’s orders cut through the air as the door to our house unlocked. I knew the moment the branch shattered the window that I was screwed. With my head hung low, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. I collapsed onto my bed, a silent tear slipping down my cheek. My father would be in soon, ready to take my video game console and impose the rest of my punishment. As his heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs, a knot of dread twisted in my gut. I braced myself for the pain that was coming.
When my father entered the room, his black leather belt in hand, his mouth moved, but the words didn’t reach me. All I could think about was the command to bend over. I complied, my heart racing, and winced as the first swing stung my backside. One. The second swing followed swiftly, this one landing lower, biting into the backs of my thighs. Two. The final swing mirrored the first, whistling through the air before connecting with my rear end. Three. It was over. I started sobbing, the sound mingling with my father’s halfhearted attempts to console me. I knew I could count on him not to spank me more than three times, yet the fear of those three swings was enough to keep me still most days.
As he left with my console, the final part of my punishment began. My bedroom felt like a prison, the walls closing in on me as I wiped the tears from my face. I could hear muffled voices downstairs, a distant reminder of the world outside that I was now barred from. My bed was my only solace, but even it felt like a trap, a reminder of the anger and disappointment swirling in my mind. I lay back down, staring at the ceiling, trapped in a silence that felt suffocating, waiting for the moment when I would be allowed to leave this confinement.
The thoughts of punishment and pain slowly faded as I returned to the normalcy of being in my own room. Isolation was nothing new to me, and while not having the video games was torture, my alternative was an escape as well. The bed creaked as I rolled over, reaching out to the white bookshelf next to me. I found it quickly sitting atop the rest, the latest Harry Potter book. Grateful I was even able to read the series, the objections of my aunts and uncles about witchcraft and hellfire were often a topic of conversation any time a new book was published. I cracked the book open, and disappeared into its pages, forgetting the events of the day.
It was the knock on the door that pulled me from my story. “Dinner, Mason,” my mother called, her voice cutting through the stillness. The brief reprieve from my prison was only a short walk to the dinner table, where she had prepared the usual Sunday spread. As I scooped a healthy portion of green beans and ham onto my plate, I caught Jessica rolling her eyes at me for some reason. Ignoring her, I began to eat in silence, the familiar taste of the food somehow bland against the heaviness in the air.
The four of us sat in awkward silence, the clinking of forks the only sound until my mother broke the ice. “I heard from Wanda that Issac is preaching at Brethren Church this week for a revival. We should go.” Ugh, not a revival. The mere word twisted in my gut, igniting a wave of dread. A weeklong event filled with services every night. Torture at school by day, and then more torture at church when the sun went down—how fun. I wanted to scream my frustration, to let the words spill out like the bitterness I felt, but the memory of the belt’s sting kept my lips sealed.
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Resentment churned inside me as I pushed the green beans around my plate, the flavorless food suddenly heavy on my tongue. I glanced at my father, his gaze fixed on the table, oblivious to the storm brewing in me. Jessica seemed lost in her own world, chatting with our mother about school, while I sat on the edge of the conversation, a silent observer. I felt like a ghost at the table, trapped in a space that was supposed to feel safe but instead felt suffocating. The prospect of a revival loomed over me, a reminder of the confinement I had just escaped. My father murmured something, scratching the top of his head where his brown hair was receding. His wide frame glasses were still locked on the dinner plate, eating while mother kept talking.
My brain raced, searching for any excuse to avoid the revival. There had to be something they’d accept to get me out of this. “What about school?” I blurted out, instantly wishing I could take the words back. School ended long before services began, so what was I thinking? I scolded myself internally as my mother laughed off my question, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
I finished my dinner in silence, the flavors of the food dull against the weight of my anxiety. My father left the table first, retreating to the living room, where the echoes of a football game drifted through the house like a distant dream. My mother locked eyes with me, a knowing look passing between us that spoke volumes. She shook her head, sealing my fate, and with that, I was banished back to my prison.
As I reached my door, Jessica called out my name. Puzzled, I turned around; we rarely spoke. I had learned by now that I was more of an annoyance to her, a ghost haunting her space. She was three years older, graduating soon, destined for college and freedom from revivals and torturous bedrooms. “What’s up?” I half-murmured, defensive as her disapproving glare pierced through me.
“You need to stop sitting in the stairwell at school by yourself every morning. It’s weird.” Her words hit me like a slap. I flinched, the sting echoing my own insecurities. It was my freshman year of high school, and I had no friends. The ones I had sat with during middle school had drifted away, laughing and bonding over summer adventures while I meandered through my room, lost in books and video games. By the time the school year began, they were strangers to me, leaving me isolated and struggling to find anyone I could talk to. Embarrassment filled my face, a redness burning my cheeks. “I…I..” I stammered, unable to find the words. “I don’t have any friends.” The words vomited out as the truth tasted like bile. My shook her head, “Find some, talk to people, just get out of the stairwell.” With that she left me in a puddled mess, closing the door to her room behind her. As if it was that easy. Talk to people? Why didn’t I think about that? I punched my pillow in frustration as the embarrassment boiled over to anger. I tried talking to people, it was like pulling teeth to find ways to relate to people who could talk about fun things together like parties, and pools, and dating, and going places. I had books and video games. I tried just making jokes, but I always tended to fall back to the same ones, and they eventually became more annoyed by the jokes. Anger and hopelessness enveloped me as I curled into a ball on my bed, tears and snot mixing together as the dread of Monday morning loomed large. Despair led to exhaustion, and I let sleep whisk me away from these feelings.