Tender Cheek Bones

• Connor Clare, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2015

As his hand grasps the rusted handle, he feels the cold metal shoot through his arm and disperse across his body. The car ride back to their home is dead silent, the only noise to be heard is the rumbling of the engine as it struggles to carry the car though out the winding hills of his hometown. The air becomes denser than it already is due to Martha beginning to light a cigarette in the car through out the journey home. Arnold keeps his eyes locked on the road like a vulture eyeing its pray, never breaking the line of sight. His grip grows only tighter as the drive continues revealing his white, scarred knuckles as his hands grip the leather of the decaying steering wheel. A genuine feeling of dread has radiated throughout the dense, smoky air.
The car pulls up to a gravel driveway. Tree branches hang overhead, almost as if they haven’t been trimmed, neglected by their owners. The car pulls into a makeshift garage-like shelter, almost entirely surrounded by rotting cardboard boxes, junk and cobwebs. As the cars engine stops, for a brief moment it is somewhat tranquil and borderline peaceful. Martha puts out her cigarette and exits the car, Arnold mirroring her. As Tom steps out the vocal silence continues as they approach a decrepit fly net door. While the door opens Tom's face turns white as he conjures up the possibilities of what could happen.
As soon as he steps into his house a fist meets his face, striking his nose. A steady flow of thick, red blood gushes out of his nostrils and into the cracks of the dirt filled tiles of his living space.
“Why do you keep doing this!?” Arnold howled. Immediately his hands clench Tom's shoulders as he tosses his frail body against the cold floor. Arnold stares at him briefly, disgusted with his child he walks off down the dimly lit hallway. A loud thud fills the house while his father slams his bedroom door. His mother slowly follows and makes her way to the room where his father had previously entered.
Tom, still dazed, makes his way to his bedroom. He pulls the loose door handle and finds his way to his bed in the dark. His body falls to his bed. He lays there completely still, his body barely moving.
The following morning Tom awakes. A single beam of light pours through the dirty curtains and into a dark, soulless room. Tom pulls him self out of his stained sheets and out of bed. He treads through his littered bedroom floor to a bathroom of similar distaste. He turns the rusted tap handle and fills his cupped hand with water and pours it into his face washing out the dried blood under his nostrils from the night before and massaging his bruised, tender cheekbones. His eyes moisten as he stares blankly into the reflection, knowing that no one will ever know.