Scum
Daddy hit the door so hard that its glass crashed and fell on the floor. Ann was trembling in the closet. She clutched her shoulders, trying to stop the trembling, but her body was stronger than herself, and it trembled, producing a quiet sound as it rubbed against the wall of the closet. Sweat was flowing down her skin. After the blow there was silence, then Ann heard vase smashing on the floor. Ann was on the brink of vomiting. In the toilet was her mom, who howled like a dog, like a poisoned dog who had been tied to a tree somewhere and left to die. Today mom was howling way too scarily.
"Ann?" daddy asked harshly.
Through the little keyhole of the closet Ann saw that daddy hadn't turned on the light.
"Ann, where are you?"
Ann hugged her knees and went on trembling. Mom was howling in the toilet, making little pauses to breathe. He had beaten her, Ann understood. He had beaten her and he wanted more.
"Ann," said daddy in a harsh offended voice, "don't hide."
He seemed to be surprised at her hiding. But she would always hide when he would begin beating mom. And now he'll find her. He had broken the door. He knew where she was.
"Ann!" yelled daddy. "Come to me, you scum!"
Ann crawled further into the clothes hanging in the closet. She heard daddy turn on the television, made it louder, as usual, and headed to the closet. Ann trembled, hearing daddy's heavy, slow steps: he was approaching like a rock rolling from the top a giant mountain. There was a movie broadcasted; daddy would always turn on the television and make it loud because Ann could scream very loudly. Daddy's body clang to the closet so heavily that its walls squeaked.
"Sparrow!" he sang nastily, curving his lips and trying to produce a sound of wind howling in the vent. "Sparrowwww!"
He lightly knocked on the closet. Ann stopped breathing.
"Where's are little sparrow?" asked daddy, patting the closet. "Where's our sparrow? Here." He knocked on the closet again. "Here's our sparrow. It would be better if you answered to your daddy. Where's our sparrow?"
"Here," said Ann very quietly.
"Uh-huh. Here. In the cage. Is it really here? I can't hear it."
"Chirp," murmured Ann quietly.
"Ah, now I can hear it," said daddy.
The door of the closet squeaked as it opened. Ann pressed her heels to her butt and covered her face with her hands. Clothes rustled above her head.
"There you are," daddy whispered. "You know it's gonna hurt. Daddy will beat you."
"Please don't," begged Ann quietly. Nevertheless, she knew begging was in vain.
"Can sparrows talk?" suddenly uttered daddy. "I'm talking to you!"
"Chirp!" squealed Ann, half crying. She knew that crying was prohibited, that crying was the worst thing of all. "Chirp-chirp-chirp."
Somewhere from above appeared daddy's hand and touched Ann's head.
"Now. Here you are."
Daddy's palm patted Ann's hands with which she covered her face, by the trembling shoulders of the girl, touched her back, then returned and slipped along Ann's neck to her ear. Suddenly, grasping her by the ankle, the hand pulled Ann up.
"Oh, daddy, please, don't! Please, don't, daddy dear!" cried Ann, trying to get away, but her daddy's grasp was strong. He pulled her out of the closet and threw her on the floor. Ann's knees began aching, but this pain was nothing compared to what she was going to experience. Ann knew that daddy would beat her. This is why she shouted and cried and wiggled in his hand.
"Please, don't, daddy, please, daddy, don't."
"Don't do what?" asked daddy ironically, putting his other hand on Ann's head.
"Don't beat," murmured Ann. "Please don't beat me."
"Aren't you a disobedient girl?" said daddy cunningly. "I called you - and you didn't come!"
"I was scared, daddy, I was scared," Ann moaned.
"Uh-huh," said daddy, pulling her by the neck to the sofa. "You were scared. I see. Now take off your clothes."
"Daddy-"
"Take it off, you scum!" daddy shouted so loudly that Ann's ears hurt. "Or I'll tear it!"
Ann suddenly ducked and tried to bite daddy's fingers. But he withdrew his hand away just in time and hit the girl in the face. Ann fell on the floor.
"Bite?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm going to show you how to bite. I'm going to bite you till you die. Remember: till you die!"
Ann remembered. When daddy promised to do something bad, he always did it.
"And where's mom?" asked Ann, licking her bruised lip and unbuttoning her dress.
"Mom is coming."
Having undressed, Ann carefully put the dress on the chair, because daddy would beat her additionally for being untidy. Then she crawled on the sofa. She stood on it with nothing but her panties on.
"Why the fuck are you standing still?" asked daddy. "Dance!"
Ann began dancing.
"And why the fuck are you so sad?" Daddy sat in his armchair with crossed legs.
Ann began smiling.
"And do it with your hands."
Ann began drawing strange figures in the air with her hands. She danced and turned around, although her legs were still trembling. Usually daddy would put some music but this time he didn't, and dancing without music was pretty hard. The television broadcasted a movie about the Second World War.
Suddenly mom entered the room. She was very pale.
"Philip," said she. "I'm sick."
Daddy stopped smiling. For a few minutes they watched Ann dancing on the sofa.
"Why the fuck have you broken the vase?" asked mom.
"Look, she's dancing so nicely," said daddy quietly.
"To hell with all this junk, Philip. It's like a cauldron with shit in my stomach. I'm sick and tired."
Daddy frowned. Ann stopped dancing and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
"Look at her, Kate. Look, she's staring like a fly."
"To hell with all this junk, Philip," said mom, sitting in a chair. "I can't watch this shit anymore."
Ann burst into tears. Not it was okay to cry.
"Shut up your mouth, you scum," said daddy tiredly.
Ann sat on the sofa, turned her face to the wall and went on crying quietly, without making aby sounds.
"Turn off this shit," mom asked quietly.
Daddy sat up and turned off the television.
"Why the fuck have you broken the vase. It was expensive."
"Yes," said daddy. "I am scum."
"You have always been scum. You have always been and you will always remain scum," said mommy gloomily. "Ann, you're not going to school tomorrow. Tomorrow we're going to the cemetery, to visit Natasha."
"Oh, no, Kate, what for?" daddy moaned. "We've been there last week!"
"Shut up, you scum," said mom. There was strange disgust in her voice. "She wants more. She comes to me each night. She sits on the edge of my bed and caresses my face. And her hands are so ice-cold..."
"Kate, dear, please shut up," daddy moaned.
"Each night," mom repeated. "She's cold and she stinks."
Daddy sat in his armchair because he couldn't stand any longer.
"I always vomit afterwards," said mom. "I'm sick and tired of everything, Philip. I'm sick of your stupid face, Philip. And you keep torturing me. The toilet was dirty in the morning. You must eat everything, don't you understand?"
"It was oozing, Kate, it was oozing."
"Oozing? You could have used a damp cloth. You're the shit eater here, not me. What the fuck can I do if my stomach doesn't work correctly?"
Daddy oozed from the armchair to the floor because he couldn't sit any longer.
"And why the fuck do I have diarrhea?" asked mom.
"Because of my stupid face," said daddy, slowly crawling on the floor.
"That's right, Philip," mom confirmed. "Because of your stupid face."
Meanwhile Ann stopped crying and dressed up again, for she was cold. She went to the window, stepping over daddy's stretched arm. It was raining, there were poodles everywhere.
"I also heard someone washing off in the toilet today," mom added. "Philip? Was that you?"
"No, not me," said daddy, frightened. "That was probably Ann."
"Ann?" asked mom suspiciously.
"Yes, mom, it was me, I went to pee."
"You lie," said mom. "He frightens you, I know that."
"No, Kate, no!" shouted daddy. "I ate it, I didn't wash it off!"
"Scum," said mom. "You lazy scum. And you, Ann, are a little frightened scummy. And I have to pay the price to Natasha. I have to pay the price."
Ann breathed on the glass and drew a little cross on it. Tomorrow they would go to the cemetery and she would stand on Natasha's grave. Natasha, there, within, below, will scratch the rotten wood with her nails. She would come to Ann every night and ask for one and the same thing. She would cry and wiggle on the carpet. "Tell me," Natasha would say, "tell me you love me. I bed you!" No. Ann would never tell her that. Never.
Original Author: Ilia Masodov (1998).