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The first blow comes from the right. A hook which connects itself to my kidney with such accuracy and force that one could almost assume a high powered magnet inhabits the organ, while the fist is comprised of pure metal. The wind escapes my body. Before I have a chance to refill my lungs with fresh air, a flawless left hook is planted on my jaw. I feel my body levitate momentarily before crashing into the wall, then the ground as my entire self is thrown back from the power of the hit. I lay on the floor like a discarded rag-doll, tossed aside by a child whose attention is now drawn by a shinier, more interesting toy to play with. The new toy, a half-empty bottle of forgotten whiskey on the nightstand; the child... just a simple man who chooses to communicate with me physically rather than verbally.
As I lay on the rug next to the door pretending to be unconscious, a trick I learned long ago, I watch him through my own greasy and bloody hair. The red waves are strewn over my pale green eyes. He clumsily grabs the bottle and almost spills the contents in the process, but since the liquid is much too important to waste, he catches the bottle in time and chugs. How he disgusts me, but his actions surely prove that I disgust him as well; so I suppose that makes us even on the scale of a madman. He zips his trousers, takes another swig and as he exits the door next to me, doesn’t forget his characteristic kick to the ribs and well aimed spit to my face- an all too familiar end to an all too familiar night.

The days are better; not quite a fairy tale, yet not quite the old kick’n spit either. The days are my solace, a time for sunlight and that sweet fresh air. Air that isn’t tainted with the overwhelming scent of stale liquor and shame. It hasn’t always been this way and I imagine it won't always be either; the wheels of change shall turn again… or my sweet and final release will come from death. I’m optimistic either way. However, the motivation or origin for such optimism, I’m sure I don’t know. The nights I don’t dwell on for just as I can rely on the old kick’n spit, I can also rely on that sun to overcome darkness everyday with the break of dawn.

Needless to say I wake early every morning, often not even bothering to go to sleep; so as to relish in the daylight as long as I possibly can. With that sunrise each morning my smile is born, as sure to be there as the fresh dew twinkling upon the grass. I start my morning chores with a song, and begin making my favorite treat banana bread. I am satisfied with my solitude. While our small farm and its crops are hardly the primary source of our earnings these days, it’s still money and needs to be kept up; if only for appearances. So while The Beast is off in the fields, I’m left alone in my blissful daytime paradise and tend to the house.

The farm has two other buildings to speak of, the true source of our survival these days… well at least what’s underneath them. The barn is fairly large, big enough to store our farm supplies and the few livestock we own. However, more importantly is that it’s big enough and inconspicuous enough to cover our home-brewing and whiskey operation that lies beneath it. I feel sorry for the stupid political b******s who passed the 18th amendment and the stupid Protestant b******s who demanded it. Their plan backfired and by now in 1926, eight years later, they are all well aware of this fact. Prohibition. Leave it to America, ‘Land of the Free,’ to be the only country in the history of man to make alcohol consumption illegal. The Beast figured out the perks and possibilities to be made from this ridiculous law quick enough, as many others did, and has been profiting ever since. By no means are we a huge and/or well-connected operation, but being far enough away from New Orleans to draw the rural folk yet close enough to get those traveling to and from the city, we get by.

The second building I referenced is a small cafe my mother opened before I was born, called, ‘The Four-Leaf Clover.’ An honest woman with an honest gift for cooking and an honest want to feed those hungry and in need. She caught them as they traveled to/fro the big city along the Old Spanish Trail. The Beast, however, barely serves food there anymore. He allows Ms. Carlyle to run it as a top cover and entrance to the cramped speakeasy located beneath. He advertises it as a speakeasy anyway- it’s really just a tiny bar that was once a storage basement for the cafe. He continuously overcrowds the space with random people in order to sell his juice to the already drunk strangers. But, beggars can’t be choosers, especially out here. Like I said, we get by. And me? I have no choice but to be another useless and hollow facade on this small farm in Paradis, Louisiana.

Reviews

[SweetNutmeg]

Very good start. I like how you start with the very closest view, putting the beating under a magnifying glass, then pulling out for a larger view and yet another larger view until we get to the name of the state. A zoom out. It's quite effective. I'm not sure about the doll and child analogy, it is a bit over used. But you present it in a new way, so maybe it's all good.

The setting and time are intriguing. I look forward to reading more.

[Coyote Poetry]

Very good description of location. I like the way the girl accept the situation. The tone of the story is sad and acceptable. I like the description of location and the customers. You can tell a story. Thank you for the excellent chapter.
Coyote