Writing about darkness

English: Emotions Q-sort (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Okay, I’ve been writing my little “darkness” series for a few days (think it’s going to wrap up tomorrow).  This is part of a bigger story that’s been running around in my mind for several years, so you’d think I wouldn’t be affected by it.  Well, I’m here to tell you today, that’s just not how it is.

This afternoon, as I was writing the post to be published tomorrow, I really felt emotional.  I felt so bad for the poor, frightened little boy (Sean…hmm…have you figured this out yet?).  I felt disgust for his father who apparently has abused the child for most of his life (I say apparently, like I don’t know the facts of the story).  And I felt downright hatred for the boy’s mother who was an active participant in the abuse.

Why do you think I felt hatred for the mother, but not for the father?  I mean, aren’t both parents supposed to nurture and protect their children?  Why place a higher level of blame on the mother than on the father?

Does your writing raise questions about what you believe and why you believe it?  Does it cause you to look deeper within yourself to examine why you feel as you do?  And do you want to read books or stories that make you feel uncomfortable?  Thoughts about any of this would be welcome.

Related articles

• Rules and Truth in Fiction (authorsofmainstreet.wordpress.com)
• What is “emotional manipulation” in writing? (jillianreadsbooks2.wordpress.com)

The dark hole

Hématome – Injurie (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The mommy monster grabbed the little boy’s upper arm, squeezing hard while pulling him toward the bed.  She suddenly stopped, taking him by surprise with a swift slap to the face.  “Take off your clothes, you dirty, dirty boy.  You peed yourself.  What?  Do you need to start wearing diapers again?”  The mommy monster was so angry that the skin on her face turned red and she was spitting in the boy’s face as she shouted.

The boy looked at the mommy monster, tears welling in his big brown eyes.  He knew he was a bad boy, a dirty boy.  Only bad boys pee their pants when they’re three.  His bottom lip was quivering as he pulled his shirt over his head.  He knew better than to argue or even to plead.  Both would only lead to increased punishment and he knew he was about to receive severe punishment, he didn’t want to make it any worse.  He pulled his pants down and stepped out of them.

The mommy monster jerked him toward her, bending over so her face was only inches from his own.  “You know we don’t like doing this to you, but you make us do it.  When you steal or lie, we have to beat the evil out of you!  This is all your fault, you bad, dirty boy!”  She then threw his little body onto the bed.  “On your stomach!  Don’t you dare move!”

She yanked his skinny little arms up toward the railings on the headboard, squeezing his fingers around  the posts.  “Keep your hands there!  You know you’ll only make it worse if you let go.”  She then walked toward the foot of the bed, reached over and grabbed his ankles, holding tight to keep the boy from moving.  As she glanced over the child to make sure all was exactly as her husband demanded, she vaguely noticed the varicolored bruises on the boy’s body.  Old, nearly faded yellow bruises.  More recent, blue bruises.  And the more vivid purple/black bruises from the last punishment session.  Then there were the thin scars on the boy’s back and thighs.  Scars from the punishments when her husband used the whip-thin switches, drawing blood, as he raised the switch over and over, high above his head, only to bring it whistling down to bite into the flesh of the boy.

With that memory fresh in her memory, the woman’s gaze met that of her husband,  a smile slowly forming on her lips.