Behind Closed Doors

He wasn’t the popular kid by far. Same dirty clothes everyday and the dirty underwear that was revealed when we changed for P.E. The clingy smell of damp which rose from every part of him as well as his ratty features didn’t help him either. His hands were often cut, bruised and worn and the same bags remained under his eyes the whole time I knew him. You raised your voice and he would quiver, you raised your hand and he would squeal. I never caught on until I was invited to spend the weekend at his house.

We would watch Star Wars. It wasn’t my favourite but I would put up with it anyway and slip my legs through the bars at the end of his bed and pretend to be in the cinema with him. When we weren’t watching the films, we would be playing with his plastic figurines of the various characters, rectifying the script how we saw fit or otherwise acting out our, mostly his, favourite scenes. The curtains were always drawn and the lights were either dim or out altogether with only a small desk lamp on the floor with us, lighting up the toys.

The smell of his clothes, which at school seemed to follow him around, engulfed us as stained underwear and a few shirts littered the floor of his room. His mother’s head peeked around the door and told him to clean the clothes up, he shrugged absent-mindedly at her; I had a feeling his cheeky demeanour would only last as long as I was there. She glared at him as she explained that consequences will be faced if he didn’t do his job, “You know what your father is like”. His face went white and he shrank, telling her he’d do it straight away. I made no comment as her head disappeared and he returned to moving his figures across the floor; apparently his bravado had returned. I was curious and made the mistake of asking what his “father was like”. He remained silent and changed the subject. The rest of the day was spent with more Star Wars and we only left the room for dinner before shortly returning.

By the time night fell, the earlier encounter with his mother had been forgotten on our part. She came in, saw the clothing still strewn upon the floor and asked him to follow her. I had never seen anyone so frightened before. His hands balled into fists as he grasped the duvet of his bed as he explained that he’d accidentally forgotten, we had been watching films all day. His mother pulled him off the bed and onto the floor, the duvet still clutched in his hands. She lifted him up before dragging him towards the door. I was still on the bed, I tried to explain that it was partly my fault but I’m not sure that she heard me over his cries. He shouted my name a few times before begging his mother to stop and finally giving in and allowing himself to be taken from the room. I heard the door to the bedroom next to the one I was in open and then a few seconds later slam shut.

For the next few minutes it was just arguing, it was as if the walls were paper thin – I could hear pretty much every word. I wasn’t sure what my friend was in trouble for, surely leaving some dirty clothes on the floor wouldn’t require him being dragged out of the room. There was silence for a minute or so apart from what seemed to be a whimpering, although the house was quite cold and it could have been a draft causing the sound. It was soon silenced by a quick snapping sound and immediately a loud scream which caught me completely off guard. Again I heard the same noise, a quick snap and another scream, this continued for about ten minutes with a few second intervals between each snap. I heard the door open and his mother telling him that she’d been in shortly to make sure we were both in bed – I had a makeshift mattress on the floor with a cover.

I could hear his sobbing from outside the room and although he tried to stifle them, he broke into tears once again when he sat on his bed. One hand was holding his back as he sat down and I could see fresh blood stains which had soaked into his pyjama top. He slowly lifted up the back of his top and showed me the fresh cuts and bruises. I thought maybe he had been slapped and scratched by his mother but when I enquired he shakily raised a hand and pointed to the top of his wardrobe, a belt lay on top of it. I looked back at his wounds and realised there were long streaks of red as well as smaller squares, presumably from the buckle, all bloody and turning purple.

I knew it was obvious; however I asked him if he had been hit by the belt. He nodded, at which point his mother came in and spotted his hand still pointing up at the belt. His shirt was still rolled up and she obviously put two and two together and realised that I knew what was going on. She shrieked at him and asked how he dare suggest she would ever hurt him before dragging him back into the previous room.

I didn’t see him again until the morning, the second time he went in the room seemed to be more intense than the first, the frequent snapping sound of the belt was also accompanied by loud screaming and shouting. I was unable to sleep until the early hours the next morning before being woken up and told I was being taken home immediately.