#institask

He’s not sure what he was thinking when he ditched school to go to the cinema with his friends. They had all made it sound like such an innocent thing to do. Come on, they goaded, it’s just one time. What’s going to happen?

Josh swallowed. Hard. 

He figured he could go up the fire escape and get in through his window, which would certainly buy him some time. Time for what...? He’s not exactly sure, but it’s his best and only option. Hurrying down the six flights of stairs, he went around back and scaled the fire escape. Josh pried open his window as quietly as he could manage and slipped in, tossing his backpack onto the bed. It took him all of two seconds to notice his door was wide open, and that his father was standing in the hall. So much for time.

“Come here, boy.”

He did as he was told, mechanically. His mother took one look at the two of them and put down a basket of newly folded laundry, retreating to her bedroom. This set off immediate sirens in his head. This is how it always was. She knew what was about to happen, but hated to watch. It was easier for her to convince herself that none of it was going on behind a closed door. Josh couldn’t even bring himself to hate her for it. 

He found he’d backed himself up against the thin wall. His father wasted no time in raising a hand at him, and he winced well before it made contact with his skin. But he didn’t make a sound. He knew better than to beg or plead, knew better than to say he’ll never do it again, that he’ll be good this time. He tried all of that before and it only made him angrier. Crying made it even worse. So he sunk deep into himself and just waited for the whole awful thing to be done with, which, this time, ended right after that initial hit. A minor miracle. 

“Go clean yourself up.” His father ordered, taking a step back. “And grab me a beer from the fridge, would ya? Games about to start.” 

Over just like that. Josh dragged himself to the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing his face with cold water. There was some blood from where his ring had caught Josh’s cheek. But the most obvious damage was a stinging red blotch on his face, like one big expressionist splat of color. By all means, it was a rather mild beating. Last weeks was far worse. He was still in pain from all the heavy-footed kicks, a nasty purple and green bruise had bloomed and spread over most of his left side.

Numbly he went to the living room. His father had already taken his spot in that old recliner in front of the tiny television set. He retrieved a Budweiser from the fridge and handed it to him. Not sure what else to do, he sat on the hopelessly faded rug a few feet from his father’s chair and drew his knees up to his chest. They watched the game in silence.

Then all of a sudden, during a commercial break, his father spoke to him. “You know I have to do those things, son.” He said, years of smoking evident in his gruff voice. “I have to do those things because I want what’s best for you.”

Such a fierce wave of sick passed through Josh that he feared he might actually vomit all over the rug. The words played over in his mind. I have to do those things. I have to do those things. I have to do those things. He nodded robotically as hot tears began to burn his eyes, and he kept his gaze glued to the screen so his father wouldn’t see them fall. 

“Really, honey?”

He gave his wife an innocent it’s-just-good-fun smile. Heather had to sigh, but it was somewhat good-natured, supposing this is what she gets for falling in love with a history nut. She thought back on the long debate they’d had over what to call their first born daughter, and how he’d been insistent on Artemisia after some Greek queen (or was it an obscure Baroque era painter? Heather could hardly recall.) She had fortunately and swiftly talked him out of that one. She guessed at the end of the day she might as well let him ramble on about history trivia, if he wanted. Marriage was compromise. 

“Why did she have to die again?” Poppy asked, breathing hotly onto the glass and drawing little pictures in the steam with her fingers. Flowers and hearts, mostly. 

“No one can seem to agree on that. Some say her husband... Do you remember who her husband was?”

Poppy knotted up her brow as she tried to recall the answer. “Oh!” She exclaimed. “Henry the V. I. I. I.”

This got a chuckle out of both parents. David continued, “The eighth. But, yes, some say her husband made up things about her that were untrue, just so he could get rid of her.”

Poppy went saucer-eyed. “Why would he do that?” A husband and wife were supposed to love each other, she thought. The concept of a couple being anything less than, well, in love, was entirely foreign to her. 

“Well, some say he wasn’t a very nice man.”

Heather twisted around to face their daughter, now invested and ready to put her two cents in. “It was tough being a girl back then. Even a queen didn’t have much power without a man behind the throne.”

Poppy pooched out her lips. “That’s stupid.”

“Don’t say stupid.”

“I’m never going to get married,” Poppy declared suddenly, folding her arms tight across her chest. Her face had taken on that hard expression of stubbornness that made her look like a spitting image of her mother. 

“It’s not like that now, Mouse. You don’t have to worry.”

“See? I told you this isn’t appropriate talk for a seven-year old...”

“No, I mean it,” She says, doubling down. “No man is ever going to decca-pate me.”

“Decapitate.”

“David. Seriously.”

“I’m just going to be queen all by myself. Then I’ll have the real power and I won’t even need a king. And I can keep my head,” Poppy adds, very logically. “That’s important to me.”