Inbound

A knock on the door with a familiar voice calling out. Suddenly all the surrounding sounds drowned out, making the heartbeat get seemingly louder. It always begins with a knock. A knock followed by the harsh sound of a door slamming against the wall. A man enters and pads through the one-room like a monster on the prowl, eyes bloodshot with the drink. He corners the trembling child. His movements are slow and deliberate, like a seasoned actor theatrically pulling out a well-worn brown leather belt. He holds it by the end, the golden buckle swinging in the air threateningly, and starts curling it around his fist.

The shiny metal of the buckle reflects in his squinty eyes. He snaps it in the air, the sharp sound echoing in the small room, looking at and savouring the fear emanating from the child. More than the red welts shining on the skin, this is what he loves and feeds on - the palpable fear, the shining tears, the dead look in the eyes, the resigned acceptance of her lot in life. He hits the child where it hurts the most - over the wounds of yesterday and the day before, over the cigarette burns and the fading bruises.

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