Mothers', Children and Killing

They were coming; their faces engraved with that familiar expression, an expression that made Sam Brooke feel so uncomfortable; an expression of corrupt-smugness and somehow knowing; a face that had been well worn into Sam’s mind. Except now, as they advanced towards him in that semi-circle formation, those expressions faded away, transforming into ones Sam had never seen before and he now knew they were not joking and maybe this would be the time they went too far.
         The school workroom held a warm and musty smell of wood, which made the air thick and intense; Sam felt it lean against him whilst rows eyes of watched him with that happy anticipation on their faces…but if they knew then what they knew five minutes later, those expressions would be horrified.
         Warmth rose in Sam’s cheeks as the back of his heel hit the wall; he could retreat no further. Still in formation, they advanced closer and Sam felt his world getting ever so small; it was as though they were carrying a huge piece of glass because with every invisible footprint each of those six boys made, Sam felt the air pushing him further into the wall. He felt the corners of his lungs fold in on themselves and breathing became a struggle, he tried to crab-walk sideways but he was stopped by something solid, a bully?Sam’s heart tumbled through his body, his head reluctantly turned…nothing, just air, but solid air; it was as though invisible walls surrounded him.
         His vision skirted the classroom…no teacher. They had waited for the moment the teacher left the room before they pounced, as they always did, except today there was nobody watching to alert the teachers return. There was always someone who would stand at the classroom door – the anchorman; Sam liked to call him – who would tell the others if the teacher was coming back. Were they getting careless? Maybe they knew the teacher was not coming back…for a while at least; after all, a while was always long enough. Sam only wished either of these were true, but instincts told him otherwise…that they just did not care anymore and this would be it. Today would be the day that they went too far, they would leave the bullying climb and reach a few rungs up the murdering ladder…but he was not surprised, it had to happen one day.
         In the six-foot by eight-foot rectangle, that was his world, Sam desperately tried to find a door or a window, but all he saw was two solid walls and six solid boys. But from somewhere, he felt a ribbon of cold air trickle through his letterbox from another boy’s world; it dribbled through Sam’s hair and fell down his face. Despite the native classroom air soon fighting off the foreign breeze, that single piece of air brought Sam as much pleasure as a loaf of bread would to a starving family.
         As the six boys reached within half a foot of Sam, his breathing was taken off autopilot; his lungs seemed to fill with air, he felt his chest swell and inflate, but he could not exhale. He tried to look at each of them individually but the instant his eyes met their faces his vision instantly scurried away as if he had looked at a bright light; Sam only saw a blurry wall of moon-faces –
         CRACK!
         From somewhere a fist was launched, it flung Sam’s head backward into the solid wall behind him and once again, he was greeted with that familiar rumble of pain. His nostrils became suddenly very clear and it was as though he was breathing in frozen November air; then, there was that well-known feeling of warmth as blood fell over his face. He looked up at one of the boys, it could have been anyone, and saw his jaw protruding him from his face while his teeth were grinding together and somewhere amongst that sinister expression there was definitely a bloodthirsty smile.
         From somewhere a dozen hands grabbed Sam, the room spun the wrong way and, for the last time, his eyes flickered over the audience – his own school friends – who still watched with that silly expectation slapped across their faces…there was no point calling for help. Who would try to stop the schools most obnoxious, strongest and evil bullies, anyway? The only coherent thought Sam had was don’t squeal, don’t cry, don’t shout for mummy.
         Don’t scream.
         The world twirled around in repetitive blurs while whirlpools of colour gushed over Sam’s vision. He tried closing his eyelids but being blind whilst a scared imagination runs hectic was worse than reality…at least that’s what Sam thought before now, before he saw the electric sander docking slightly too close to his head. Its single eyeball waited under a droopy lid of machinery like a moon behind mist the tired sky ceased to carry. It was a dormant creature, but it could still smell the worn fear from Sam’s body; its face twinkled with the gritty sand, but to Sam they looked like the angry corners of stars.
         Don’t shout for mummy.
         Sam’s chest had been filled with rocks, the flood gates of his eyes felt too heavy; he needed to cry, at least that would be a normal reaction, but these boys and this sander and him, that equation was not normal, it was insane. He had to remind himself to breathe by pinching his leg otherwise he would have fallen unconscious; but maybe that was not such a bad thing, at least he would feel no pain…but think of what they would do to him with no resisting; they would do anything and there would be nobody to scream and bleed –
         NO! NO! Don’t press it don’t, please don’t Sam felt himself scream inside as a finger leaned towards the ON button above the sander. Don’t press that button, don’t wake it.The finger leant against the button, but not quite enough to switch on the power. Screams rose from Sam’s feet, to his knees, his thighs, rocketing through his chest and exploding in his mouth and he felt the most tremendous need to tear off his lips, rip out his teeth and let the scream come flooding out before it ruptured his body. He did not. He held it in his mouth. He sucked on his tee-shirt and sucked until he felt the material reach the back of his throat and he sucked until he felt it go further down inside him until he swallowed the scream.
         Click. Whoosh-ka-cha. Whoosh-ka-cha. Whoosh-ka-cha.
         As he heard that finger press that switched which sent that single eye revolving on it axis, making that awful whirling noise, this script, written in Hell, became his reality; a hand unzip him and he fell out of his own body. He had been pushed to the edge of reason and looked into the mouth of insanity.
         Whoosh-ka-cha. Whoosh-ka-cha. Whoosh-ka-cha.
Hands, one minus a bakers dozen, yanked and dragged Sam’s body towards the sander, which blew its cold breath on his face as it whirled seemingly faster, its bite seeming sharper with every recollection Sam had of scary films and books. He incoherently, unexpectedly and rudely ruined his mind’s preparations for the pain by thinking I wonder if that sander can feel my breath. Somewhere amongst all of it, Sam looked up at the sander and thought that thing’s going to rip off my face, look how fast its going, I will end up with no face. At that point he just did not care, he delved inside himself and concluded he would not care if he died at that moment, right there, in front of everyone; he just wanted no more pain. Those were the only two coherent thoughts he had during that one and a half minutes; to him, that mere footstep of time seemed like a whole expedition. Every other thought was just…lightening; random shapes and colours in his head like…lightening.
         Blood spilled in Sam’s mouth and he knew this was it; while dust and ashes were flying up his nose and a classroom full of people watched, he felt his face being sliced and severed and dragged and ripped –
         Wait, I have not even reached the sander yet, they had not taken me close enough for it to get me,Sam thought. He then realised his jaw was clamped so tightly shut to keep in the screams his gums bled; he felt his heart groan.
         “Hey, that’s enough, if he gets anymore scared I think he’ll explode. Switch it off. Man, I think he shat his pants,” said one of the bullies.
         Sam felt the whole of his insides sag with relief…it was over. Just a joke, just a sick, sick joke. No more pain. Just a joke.Sam still held his breath, but he did not know why; it simply felt right.
         The whirling eye slowed down, releasing a slower, distorted sound: Whooooooooooosh-wuh-whooooooosh-ka-cha-ka-cha-ka-cha.
          Words tried to creep from Sam’s still clamped jaw: “Huh-huh-hey th-th-that…wuh-wuh –”
         CLICK!
         A finger pushed the ON button again.
         “ONLY JOKING, SAM-Y BOY-O, WE’RE GONNA PUT YOUR FUCKING FACE IN THAT SANDER. YOUR GONNA END UP LOOKING LIKE A BULLDOGS ARSE.”
         Laughter erupted and Sam felt himself sink into a different set of reason and understanding.
         Whoosh-ka-cha. Whoosh-ka-cha. Whoosh-ka-cha.The cruel chuckle of the electric sander soon bulldozed its way over his mind again. Suddenly the six boys rammed Sam’s face into the definition of pain.
         GUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.