《The Birth of Evil (Novella)》


 Prologue

    THERE IS A common misconception that life begins at birth, and that it always starts at the same time. Hypothetically speaking, it does, although some will argue that it begins at conception, with the splitting and multiplying of cells. But regardless of what you believe, it does inarguably begin with a decision.


    Perhaps your life began with a late night, and a bit too much to drink. Perhaps it began on your darkest day; when the worst thing you could ever imagine had already happened, and there was nothing that could change it or bring them back. When your father boots you out of the house. When your mother falls in love with a bad man. When you begin to believe that, finally, the world will not be pulled out from under you again, and then it is.


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    I wish I could tell you that this story has a happy ending. I wish I could say that I saved his life and undid the Unimaginable. Unfortunately, things don¡¯t always work out in the end¡ªat least, not in the way we want them to. And if you want to know the truth, it¡¯s that nothing lasts forever. Every one of us wishes for happiness. We wish on every dandelion, every sunny day, every drop of rain. We hope that things will get better, and they will. After all, everyone deserves a happy ending.


    But not everybody gets one.

 I - Shiver

    "The truth is rarely pure, and never simple."


    - Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest


    Z¨¹RICH, SWITZERLAND


    DECEMBER 2002


    IT IS NEVER, ever too late to be happy. It is never too late to do the right thing, or to make a better choice.


    But it was too late for Will.


    It was a good day, to begin with. In fact, it was the best in many months. It was his first Christmas in Switzerland, and he had to finish his bath before breakfast, or he wouldn¡¯t be allowed to go to the party that evening. And since he hadn¡¯t eaten dinner the night before, his stomach was rumbling. He felt whispery and faint, as if he weren¡¯t standing, but lying on his back, floating on a distant ocean. As he stood there, melting away in the steaming water, he could hear the crashing of waves breaking upon the shore, and the cries of seagulls sailing over his head. He could almost feel the warmth of the summer sun and smell the salt of the sea.


    And then he opened his eyes.


    Will clutched the flannel tighter. A tear trickled down his cheek, falling like the gentle rain from Heaven. It rippled over the surface of the water below, one drop disappearing in a sea of thousands. Though, it wasn¡¯t from sadness, but pain. He could feel his skin peeling away in the scalding water. He was standing, rather than sitting, because he wanted as little contact as possible. However, this meant that he had chosen to sacrifice his legs to the punishing heat.


    He sighed and lowered himself once more into the water, but it was too late, for his father had already caught him out of it. The door slammed behind him, and before he knew it, Will was being struck sharply across the face. Already precariously balanced, he toppled off the edge of the bathtub and onto the floor, slapping against it like a fish thrown onto the deck of a boat.


    There was no time for pain, or for any kind of feeling at all. He quickly regained his feet, daring not to look in those cold, empty eyes. He pulled a towel off the rack and wrapped it around himself, soaking in the muted warmth. Another blow bashed his head off the countertop, and the fragile skin broke open, blood weeping down his temple. He flicked his tongue over his lips, shivering at the coppery, tannic taste.


    His father seemed quite pleased by this, but no less hostile. Thankfully, his attention was caught by the sound of shouting from downstairs, and he hurried out of the bathroom, tripping over the burgundy runner. Will chuckled, breathing in a sigh of relief. Henry could beat him within an inch of his life, but never take his will to survive.


    So, he peeled himself up off the floor and finished his bath, scrubbing until his skin was red and glowing. For his obedience, he was granted the picked-over remains from the breakfast table. That morning, it was coconut and almond scones, with a glass of ice-cold milk. He ate quickly and gratefully, indifferent to the dryness of the scones and the crunch of the coconut, choking them down before his father could change his mind.


    Five minutes later, he was being strapped into the back seat of the car. He wasn¡¯t supposed to be driving without a safety seat, and was so small that he almost disappeared into the leather upholstery. Because he had finished his breakfast with not a moment to spare, he had to be driven to his uncle¡¯s house. Every other day, he had walked, arriving just as the table was cleared and the plates brought back to the kitchen. Instead, he broke into the larder and stole as much as he could carry, or clutched at the housekeeper¡¯s apron and begged her for something¡ªanything¡ªto eat.


    Before the car came to a complete stop, Will and his siblings had opened the doors, dashing up the steps of the house on R?mistrasse¡ªthat towering stone building, with a bell tower and a gallery above the entrance, from which the Swiss, French, and British flags fluttered.


    Henry shouted after them, but only Will turned back. He had forgotten the food for the holiday cocktail party. It had been the same for six years, and as long as Will had been alive: bread sauce and Christmas pudding with brandy butter. All English classics, which would¡¯ve been sorely missed if it weren¡¯t for Henry, whose children stolidly refused to try the rockfish and raclette, eating only what they had known all their lives.


    Will gazed up into his father¡¯s bleary red eyes. He had been wearing the same clothes since they stepped off the flight from London five days ago: a dark suit, crummy tie, and the ragged shoes his poor Irish grandfather had worn on his wedding day. His gleaming red hair was manky and sticking up in all directions. His cheeks were sunken in, and around his eyes were rings of the deepest, darkest black Will had ever seen. He held the stub of a cigarette between his trembling fingers, lifting it to his mouth and looking for all the world as though he¡¯d just crawled up out of the grave.


    He rolled down the window and blew out a cloud of smoke, then the car pulled away. Will was left alone, a little boy standing by himself on a crowded city street. He was battered about by the people passing by on their way to the bus and train, always late or in a hurry for one thing or another. No one stopped to ask him where his parents were, or why he was standing there, holding a pudding that weighed half as much as he did.


    When he turned around, his cousin was waiting at the door. Marco sank to his knees, despite the snow on the step, and cupped Will¡¯s face in his hands. He knew that he was young, and it was quite early in life to be learning new languages, so he spoke in English:


    ¡°Oh, Will. What happened to your head?¡±


    ¡°I tripped,¡± he lied, without hesitation.


    Marco smiled sweetly at him, smoothing a hand over his hair. He pulled a small book from his pocket and flipped through the pages, to the most recent. He pointed to a neat black line, and although Will couldn¡¯t read yet, he knew every word.


    ¡°You said that last time.¡±


    His heart leapt to his throat. He quickly amended his story, looking up at Marco with pleading eyes, hoping he would not push any further. ¡°I slipped on the ice. It was an accident,¡± he insisted. His voice was strangled, and scarcely above a whisper.


    But Will was young and na?ve, and Marco knew better than to swallow whole every tale he was told. One look into those piercing blue eyes, and Will broke open, confessing to the sins of his father, although a part of him had hoped to defend him¡ªthat cruel, ignorant, self-centred man, who did not deserve the unconditional love of a child.


    Marco took his hand and led him into the house, where he was passed on to his uncle. Bypassing their typical greetings and pleasantries, he was brought to the bathroom and asked to remove his shirt. He obeyed without question, because they had done this once before, at the wedding of a Swiss minister, when he had come with a battered face. When the bride saw him, she had taken him gently by the hand and escorted him to the Malakoffs, who were the guests of honour, seated around their table at the head of the room. They had gasped in unison, and before he knew it, Will was being swept off his feet, carried to the gentlemen¡¯s toilets, and asked to strip off his suit. He didn¡¯t know yet that he was supposed to be afraid of a stranger who asked him to take off his clothes, so he did, revealing the bloody, swollen slashes and horrific bruising that covered every inch of his skin.


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    Will had been made to wear his clothes until they hung in tatters off his body. His jumper was coming apart at the seams, his shoes so thin that they ripped like paper. He had been wearing them for two years, and they still fit not for how large they had been to begin with, but because he hadn¡¯t grown an inch since then. Will was uncommonly small¡ªa six-year-old who stood head and shoulders below most children his age.


    He was deathly still as fingertips pressed against the scrapes and contusions that marred his otherwise flawless skin. He counted the scars and scabbed-over cuts on Will¡¯s forearms, looking for any he might¡¯ve missed. He gently pressed his thumb down on the boy¡¯s lower lip, peering in at his teeth, which were grated down to nubs. He ground them in his sleep, and every waking moment, when he had a tangible reason to be anxious. There was no light in the unending darkness; no break or pause in the dream that his life could be different from the Hell he was living. That is why his uncle paused at a heavily-infected scar on the inside of his left wrist.


    ¡°Oh, Will,¡± he choked, staring disbelievingly down at the wound. ¡°How could you do this to yourself?¡±


    He began to shake. The older man must¡¯ve seen the fear in his eyes, for he released his arm and gathered him close. Will didn¡¯t want to be released back into that world of heartbreak and misery; darkness and death. He wanted to stay there forever, in his uncle¡¯s arms, where he was safe. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the man¡¯s shoulder. For a moment, the world fell away, and it was only the two of them, kneeling on the floor, holding onto each other like their last dying breath. Will prayed he would fall asleep before he fell apart.


    But the moment slipped away, as it always does. His uncle stood up, walking out into the bright winter sunlight, which streamed through every open window. He closed the door behind him, and Will hurried to put his clothes back on. When the door opened, he ran into his grandmother¡¯s arms. Before her, he hadn¡¯t known it was possible to love without expecting anything in return. But he was grateful for it, because he had nothing left to give.


    She gently touched the scar on his wrist. She placed a hand beneath his chin and lifted his head. Will was afraid to look her in the eyes, for what he would find inside them. He flattened his lips and didn¡¯t say a word about what had happened to him. At the wedding, she had confronted his father to ask about the bruises. At the time, she had no idea what happened behind closed doors, but now that she did, those answers brought only torment. Back then, she had only known that Will was troubled; that he stole food and played too rough with his cousins. But when he sat down to dinner the next night, she had seen the results of the beating that had ensued the second he looked into his father¡¯s eyes, and hadn¡¯t confronted him again.


    ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of this,¡± she barked.


    Will almost leapt out of his skin at the sound. He¡¯d heard his grandmother raise her voice only once before, and had hoped never to hear it again. He began to cry, burying his face in her skirt, pleading her not to say a word to his father. She told him she wouldn¡¯t, but was careful not to promise. She ruffled a hand through his hair before sending him out to play with his cousins. It was too late for him to open an early present with them, so he shrugged his coat back on and hurried out into the cold, slipping on the ice. When he caught up with them, they were building a snowman along the frigid banks of Lake Z¨¹rich. He hesitated, afraid of what they would say. They didn¡¯t know the truth, because it was too painful to put into words.


    He collapsed backward into the snow, knees pulled tight to his chest. He sat there for a moment, settling into that old, familiar darkness as he gained the briefest glimpse of the world he had been denied. Then he dragged himself to his feet and brushed the snow from his coat. But before he could go trudging back to the house, Marco appeared along the treeline, flushed and breathless, waving at him. He leapt over the edge and slid down from the top of the hill, laughing. He held Will¡¯s hand as he tottled along at his side, then lifted him up and carried him the rest of the way. Will buried his face in the collar of his coat, smiling to himself.


    They walked into the study, and Will looked up, momentarily blinded by the glittering firelight. Marco lowered down into an armchair beside the hearth, still holding him tightly to his chest. Sitting before them was their extended family, who had come to Z¨¹rich to spend the holidays with the Malakoffs. They were accompanied by a police officer. Will went abruptly cold at the sight of her, even in his heavy winter coat. He didn¡¯t know whether to scramble down out of Marco¡¯s arms or wait for the sky to fall, the way it always did in a moment like this. He hid his face in Marco¡¯s shirt, and around him, their frowns lifted into sombre smiles. He had no idea that they were about to risk life, liberty, and reputation to save him. If they had only known how he would one day repay their kindness, perhaps they would¡¯ve chosen differently, but no one can predict the future, although many of us wish we could.


    As the policewoman explained the purpose of her visit, Will felt himself shrinking back into Marco¡¯s chest, as nearly to become a part of him. She asked if his father had ever hit him, and Will only shook his head. No was one was ever supposed to know, and he would push away every chance at happiness if it kept what happened in the dark from coming to light. But there is nothing on earth that can stop the sun from rising.


    A soft voice asked him to look up. It was his grandmother, gently peeling him away from Marco. She told him it was going to be alright, and he was safe. She sat back down in her chair, holding him on her lap. Will drew in a deep breath, holding tightly onto the neck of her dress before reluctantly telling them about his father. He cried as he told them how he was punished for being a child, with all a child¡¯s thoughts and desires. He wished they would leave, and Marco would hold him until he fell asleep, because he had reached his threshold, and was one wrong move from falling apart. He felt hot and feverish, as though he were melting and spilling down onto the rug.


    They dismissed him to sit in the hallway, while the adults spoke amongst themselves. As Will reached up to open the door, they nodded in approval. He did as he was told and sat down on the chair outside, biting the sleeve of his coat as he waited, staring at the closed door and wondering what they were saying within. It seemed ages before he was called back into the study.


    He climbed up into the chair beside Marco. The housekeeper came in with a tray of tea and cakes. Will devoured them, hardly tasting the thick buttercream that coated his tongue. His uncle poured him a cup of tea, stirred in a pinch of sugar, and handed it to him, warning him not to drink it too quickly, because it was hot, and he would burn his mouth. Will had no idea what was happening, or why they all looked so sad.


    The officer asked for his address and telephone number, copying them down in her notebook. Will looked up at Marco and felt ballast settling in the pit of his stomach. He held a hand to his mouth, as his breakfast threatened to make a reappearance. The officer closed her book. Marco helped him down, and suddenly he was standing on his own two feet again. He felt his body moving through the air as he followed the lady to the door, on quivering legs. When it opened, he stopped dead in his tracks, for his cousins were gathered outside, waiting.


    Will turned down the hall, following his uncle, who held his hand tighter than ever before. His grandparents were holding Marco, who was crying so hard he couldn¡¯t breathe. He fell to his knees on the carpet, throwing his arms around the little boy standing before him.


    ¡°Be good, Will,¡± he begged.


    ¡°Yes, Marco.¡±


    His cousins stood in a straight line running along the length of the hall, silent. They waved goodbye to him as he was handed off to the police officer, and they walked together to the door. Now he knew he was going to prison, but didn¡¯t fight back. They stepped outside, into the biting cold. The neighbour¡¯s children were laughing and throwing themselves into the snow. As he clambered into the car, and it peeled away from the curb, Will looked back over the seat at their shadows, until they disappeared over the horizon. Before he left, Marco had promised to tell everyone the truth¡ªthe real truth.


    They arrived at the police station on Limmatquai. He had expected his father to be there, waiting for him, and had to be pulled out of the car and up the steps. He wouldn¡¯t surrender that easily.


    The officer led him into a large office that smelled of coffee and freshly-printed paper. Will watched her closely, nibbling at the cake he had hidden in his pocket, savouring it, for he didn¡¯t know when or if he would be eating again.


    She asked for his number a second time, and he came up to stand beside her as she put it into the telephone. Will watched the black dial turn, straining to hear the voice on the other end. His father answered almost immediately. The police officer waved him away and said: ¡°Mr. Claridge, this is Officer Gallatin, from the Z¨¹rich kantonspolizei. Your son, William, will not be returning to England with you. From now on, he will be in the custody of the Malakoff family, and the protection of the Swiss Confederation. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to call.¡± She put down the receiver and smiled, but the still, cold brown of her eyes betrayed that she had been as nervous as him to make the call.


    Then they were driving away, back toward the house on R?mistrasse, and she turned back to him. ¡°Congratulations, Will. It¡¯s over.¡±


    ¡°It is?¡± he whispered.


    ¡°Yes. Your father will never hurt you again.¡±


    Will leaned back against the seat, looking out the window, at Lake Z¨¹rich. A glittering reflection of the waves blinded him again, and he turned away, a tear streaming down his cheek. It was over.


    He was free.

 II - The Happy Years

    IN THE YEARS before it all fell apart, the Claridges were the perfect family, with a life many of us can only wish for. Will and his siblings, James and Juliet, were blessed with the best parents, who fulfilled their every thought and desire without question, giving them all they could ask for and more. They did not even have to ask if they wanted to stay up late or eat ice cream for breakfast¡ªa five-year-old¡¯s beautiful, but impossible daydream. Though, what they didn¡¯t realise is that only a parent who doesn¡¯t care about the wellbeing of their child will allow them to have everything. You cannot put a price on love. It is about stopping problems before they happen. It is not letting things slide, and doing what¡¯s best for someone, even if they don¡¯t understand. It is making the hard choice, because it¡¯s the right one.


    The Claridges lived in an eleven-bedroom house in Knightsbridge, on Hyde Park Corner. It was the most exclusive neighbourhood in London, set in the very heart of the city, between Belgravia and Kensington.


    In the beginning, Henry supported his family as an author and freelance book editor for Hachette UK, on the Victoria Embankment. But that was before he lost his job.


    He stood at five feet nine, with broad shoulders and capturing eyes. He was remarkably strong for such a small man, easily able to carry all three of his children at once. He was handsome, steady, and tough as nails. But, deep below the surface, he was soft, sensitive, and scared¡ªa part of him that only his wife could see. He was perfect to a fault, meticulously tending an herb garden that was the envy of Knightsbridge, which he loved more than his flesh and blood.


    His mother, Annalise, was a tall woman with clear blue eyes and long lashes, which she had passed on to Will, though not her height. She was strong-willed, determined, and radiant with joy. She was loving, and refreshingly happy, as few people are. Cleaning was her own form of happiness¡ªthe kind that one only feels in unison with relief. But she did it too often and too much, until it became a manic obsession. It was the only thing that left her with that feeling of temporary, but abating satisfaction. Eventually, it drove to sit at the table for hours, touching every scratch; shifting and straightening the cloth that covered it, which never lay perfectly even. Every morning, when she showered, Annalise used an exfoliation brush until her skin was raw and bleeding from how forcefully and repeatedly she scrubbed it. She was the first person that Will ever saw purposefully hurting themselves, but didn¡¯t understand until he was older that she couldn¡¯t help it, and by then, it was too late. He could not undo what she had taught him¡ªthat thing that consumed his every waking moment; that brought him from hospital, to institution, to yet another cold and sterile room.


    Will did not go to his mother¡¯s funeral. But he arranged every minute of it, from the red berries and sprigs of holly that decorated her casket to the beautiful strains of flute and violin that filled the house. It was crowded with solemn family and tearful friends, all quietly dressed in shades of black and grey. They had a candlelit dinner at Le Malakoff, as she had asked. At the end of the night, they raised a toast in her honour, then said their farewells. Many of them never saw each other again.


    Annalise died the week before Christmas.


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    But, once upon a time, when the world was an easier, better place, Henry would disappear into the attic on the first day of December, returning with boxes of dainty decorations from Harrods and Harvey Nichols. Standing on a tall ladder, he tacked strings of tinsel and shining ornaments to the bannisters, which soared twenty feet above the foyer. And when he was finished, their house was the brightest and best in all of London. Lacy snowflakes adorned every window, and lights were draped around the frame, casting circles of gold upon the snow in the garden. Every night, Will fell asleep staring up at their soft, incandescent glow.


    Their tree was never an inch under fifteen feet tall, and took hours to decorate, even with the help of their household staff. Each year, the children took turns placing the angel on top, while their father held them over the railing.


    After dinner, the butler lit a fire in the hearth, and the chef brought them hot chocolate and cheesecake. The nurse gathered the children close, while their father read to them, and Frank Sinatra sang on the old wooden radio with ivory dials. Will always drifted off in her lap, listening to the crackling of the fire.


    As Christmas approached and the advent chocolates dwindled, the children grew impatient. The gifts under the tree became only more plentiful, and by the time the twenty-fifth arrived, there were dozens for each person to unwrap on that long-awaited morning. The Claridges were a wealthy family, and lived like one.


    On Christmas Eve, after watching the carollers out in the snow, they were each allowed to open one gift before they were sent up to bed. Will listened closely as he lay there in the darkness, waiting for the sound of sleigh bells. But he always fell asleep before reindeer landed on the roof. These were the moments he remembered with tears in his eyes, because he was so happy to have had such a beautiful family, and such a perfect life. He often wondered who he might¡¯ve been if it had stayed that way¡ªa selfish, spoiled aristocrat with a title and estate.


    In the spring, they went to St. James¡¯s Park, where the tulips were blooming and flourishing. Once there, the children were released, to climb the newly flowering trees, off in a world of their own imagining. They had to be pried away when it came time for lunch, which they ate in a hurry, before running off to places unknown and things yet to see. Their parents stayed behind, lying next to each other on a blanket, propped up on their elbows, sipping wine and looking on.


    In the summer, they went on holiday to Clacton-on-Sea. Every year, they stayed for three weeks in a house on the beach, then five days with their family in Colchester. But when they left the city, driving north on the A12, Will knew that they were going to Southend-on-Sea.


    On the last day of school, they were dismissed early, and ran through the woods, arriving back at the house, where their suitcases awaited them, already packed from the night before. During the drive, he pressed his face against the glass, staring out at the endless, flourishing greenery. When they arrived at the cliffs, in the quiet part of town, with its stone buildings and old, towering churches, he rolled down the window, breathing in the salty sea air.


    Will spent the days running down the beach and crashing through the wide, open water and the glistening waves. If Heaven were a feeling, it would be that.


    On the last day, they watched the sun setting over the ocean, sitting on the shore, wrapped in a wool blanket. The horizon was smooth and blurry, and screaming shearwaters streaked past overhead. They were silent as they last light of day lowered down beneath the surface of the sea, painting the sky with watery golden streaks. Will¡¯s heart skipped in his chest, and a warm wind blew through his hair. He would never again feel as safe or as happy as he did in that moment, on the black rocks of Southend-on-Sea.

 III - It Ends With Light

    FIRST AND FOREMOST, before this story truly begins, it¡¯s important that you know the relationship between Henry and Will wasn¡¯t always abusive¡ªit began as strict discipline¡­ which got out of control, to put it lightly. No, it began with being banished to the corner, and ended with blood, bruises, and broken teeth. It began like any other story, and culminated in a moment where he had no strength to crawl away from the darkness, even if it meant the difference between life and death. There is no divine mercy, and there are no miracles.


    At least, he didn¡¯t think so.


    All his life, Will had the unfortunate luck of being caught at mischief¡ªexcept when it truly mattered. In the beginning, he was put in the corner, facing the wall, sometimes for up to eight hours. It wasn¡¯t long before the very sound of his father¡¯s voice sent shivers down his spine. Even when the shouting wasn¡¯t directed at him, Will hid under the bed, praying that his father wouldn¡¯t find him there.


    But when he decided the corner was no longer effective, it was the strap. At first, it was a punishment without notice, where his father would snatch him up like a kitten and beat him until flesh ripped from bone. Then he was forced to lie on his flayed back, staring at the ceiling. Whenever his siblings came into the bedroom while he was lying on the blood-stained blanket, which had been thrown across the floor, they gazed thoughtfully down at him, then carried on as before.


    Henry was different as night and day when his wife came home. Her presence meant no abuse, and no fear. She was his shield; his protector, and nothing on earth could keep them apart.


    But, one morning, she knelt before him, gathered him close, and told him to be good, because she wasn¡¯t going to be coming home for a while. His father stood behind, arms folded, looming over them. Will looked into his cold blue eyes, and a pulse of icy blood shot through his veins. He wanted her to hold him and never let go. He wanted someone to hold his hand and tell him everything was going to be okay. But, in the end, no one did, and like always, his mother walked away, back into the world he didn¡¯t understand. She had never seemed so big, and he had never felt so small. She didn¡¯t touch him that way again¡ªthat soft, that gentle, and as though she would truly miss him if he were gone.


    For a while, the waters were calm, as they rarely were, and never would be again. His parents held flamboyant parties for their upper class friends, dancing round the ballroom as the old, baroque gramophone released the low strains of the Florence Symphony Orchestra. They held each other close, and seemed so perfectly happy that Will thought perhaps that time of fear was finally behind them.


    But he was wrong. He didn¡¯t yet know the meaning of mortal terror, nor the unimaginable depth of the darkness a human soul can reach.


    One morning, Will saw the life he wanted in a shop window. But when they went in, and he held it between his hands, it slipped just as quickly out of reach, shattering upon the floor at his feet. There was no time for any form of rational thought before his father rushed up from behind, taking him roughly by the arm and jerking him in the direction of the toilets. His eyes were glazed over, and his breath smelled of hard alcohol. The door slammed behind them, and as the lock turned, Will closed his eyes. He shielded his face with his hands, but they were just as quickly knocked away. His arm flew up in front of his face. As his father took hold of it, the small bones, thin and fragile, snapped beneath the weight of his fingers. Searing pain shot through every fibre of his being.


    The startled expression on Henry¡¯s face confirmed that he had heard the sound, as well. He released Will¡¯s arm, and went to wash his hands, as though nothing had happened. Will collapsed to the ground, clutching his arm, which he knew was most certainly broken.


    When he was summoned to supper that evening, he sat down between his elder brother and younger sister, then reached for his water glass. But his arm did not respond, hanging lifeless at his side. He glanced up at his father with pleading eyes, but was afraid to say that he needed to go to A&E immediately. Instead, he sat there, pushing roasted vegetables around his plate with a trembling hand.


    Early in the morning, he fell asleep with his uninjured arm folded over his chest, and the right lying useless beside him. He hadn¡¯t slept for more than an hour, when suddenly he was heaved out of bed and slammed against the nearest wall. He slid to the floor, eyes rolling up to see the shadow standing above him¡ªhis father, who threw him over his shoulder, then deposited him heavily in the back seat, a heap of skinny legs and broken bones. He seemed unconcerned, even when oily spots appeared before Will¡¯s eyes and the world spun out into darkness, as the car edged ever closer to the hospital. It was pain like nothing else on earth.


    When his father told the doctors that he¡¯d fallen out of bed, he almost blurted that it hadn¡¯t been an accident, but was paralysed by fear once again. When they returned, his arm was heavily cast and in a sling. His father created an even more dramatic tale for Annalise, which he listened to apathetically. He knew that this man, who broke his heart at every twist and turn, was not evil. This wasn¡¯t his fault, because he was insane. But that fear kept anyone from getting close enough to help.


    School was a sanctuary for Will. He made friends easily and was happy to learn. But still his father took him by the arm and threw him into his bedroom, rolling end over end across the hardwood floor. He screamed in his face, telling him he¡¯d been held back because of his behaviour. Will couldn¡¯t understand it. He had received the highest marks in his year and obeyed his teacher without question. But still he was sent to bed without dinner every night. After a thrashing, he was sent to the wine cellar¡ªa dark, damp cave beneath the house¡ªto stand in the darkness and cold until he was called up for bed.


    That summer¡ªbeautiful, sweltering, and bright¡ªhe boarded a flight to Switzerland, sent to stay with the Malakoffs. He hadn¡¯t been told before it happened. He didn¡¯t understand it when the car pulled away from the airport, leaving him behind with a suitcase twice his size, holding the hand of the air stewardess who was to accompany him to Z¨¹rich. He was more than sad, more than broken. He was a hollow husk of a person.


    That was the summer he tried to run away. He wanted his family; his brother and sister. Despite everything, he wanted his parents. He managed to reach the bus stop before he was found. They told his father, and Will paid dearly for his sin. He tried to protest¡ªto plead for his life¡ªbut his father didn¡¯t listen. When he finally choked out a few words, a bar of soap was rammed into his mouth. After that, he was no longer allowed to speak without permission.


    For years, they all lived in the nightmare his father had created. But Will prayed that the morning would come, and they would be released from this endless darkness; that they were not on the losing side of this war.


    All too often, the look in his father¡¯s eyes told Will that he was out for blood. After beating him with the metal end of a belt, he took Will and pulled him to the kitchen, as blood soaked through the back of his shirt. Will pressed himself against the door, but it didn¡¯t matter¡ªhis father reached across and seized him by the chin, snapping his head up to face him. He was stripped of his clothes and told to stand beside the cooker. Will obeyed, shaking like a leaf. Henry reached over him and turned on the gas burners, and the flames snapped to life. His mind was blank, and his legs quivered like jelly. He closed his eyes, begging for mercy.


    His mind ground to a halt when he felt a hand clamp down on his broken arm and rip it from the sling. It was straightened, doused in petrol, and held over the searing flames. His skin exploded into hellish heat. The dark, choking scent of scorched flesh rose in plumes from his arm, but hard as he fought, he couldn¡¯t break free. Then, finally, he let go, and Will fell to the floor, clutching his arm and screaming. His skin was still crackling, burnt down to the fat, which sizzled and popped as it melted away.


    Then he was ordered to climb up onto the burners and lie on the flames, so his father could watch him burn alive. Will refused, but his father lifted him onto the counter and emptied the petrol can over his head, holding him down as the inferno roasted his skin. Will felt the flames flicker and dance, screaming at the top of his lungs.


    When the flames enveloped his chest, his father stepped back, and Will rolled off the burners, onto the floor. Before he hit the ground and the fire was snuffed, he realised that the longer he kept himself off the cooker, the better his chances were of staying alive. His father never threatened his life when there was a witness¡ªalthough, he wondered what would have happened if he had died, and there was a charred corpse left behind to be disposed of.


    He had to stall for time.


    Will stole a glance at the clock. The second hand was creeping forward, but not quick enough. He curled into a tight ball as blows rained down on his head and back, but the more it hurt, the clearer the realisation became that he had won¡ªhis life would not end today; he would not go up in flames.


    Then the front door clicked open, and James came running in. The blood drained from Henry¡¯s face. Now he knew that he had lost. For that singular moment, there was nothing he could do. And while he was standing there, paralysed, Will seized his clothes and hurried down to the cellar, where he put them back on and stood against the wall, whimpering at the white-hot pain.


    Standing alone in the darkness, he knew, for the first time, that he would survive this. He would use any tactic if it meant delaying the inevitable. He couldn¡¯t give in, come Hell or high water.


    That day, he vowed never to give his father the satisfaction of seeing him beg for mercy. His body trembled with the aftershocks of mortal fear. He wanted to scream at the pain, and did, stuffing a sleeve into his mouth to muffle the sound.


    AFTER THE BURNING, school became his only hope of escape. His relationship with his father was falling apart. Will had new clothes, but because he wore them week after week, they soon became weathered, torn, and noxious. His father no longer tried to cover the black, bloody contusions that covered every inch of his skin. When asked about them, he gave the excuses that had been quite literally beaten into his head.


    By then, he was no longer eating in the evenings, and breakfast often fared no better. On a good day, he was given a bowl of raw chicken, wet and sticky, in the hope it would make him deathly ill, but somehow it never did. At night, his stomach lurched and growled, and he lay awake, fantasising about the steaks he¡¯d seen on television. He envisioned every inch of it, from the meat, dripping with juices and blood, to the vegetables and gravy on the side. Then he woke, stomach hollower than ever before.


    After that, nothing could satisfy that bone-deep hunger. It wasn¡¯t long before he began to steal food from other people, skin burning with fear and giddy anticipation. He always did it in the morning, while the others lingered outside the building, talking and laughing. He crawled along the wall outside the classroom, dropping his satchel below the coat hooks, and began to tear apart their lunches like a swine in a trough. The first few times were easy, but after several days, they began to notice things were missing from their lunchboxes. They told the headmaster, who informed Will¡¯s father, leading to more aggressive beatings and less food than ever before. It finally reached breaking point, where he was nearly foaming at the mouth as he plotted against the world and its people, who took everything from him time and time again.


    By then, he was no longer a member of the family. He existed and held a place in time, but wasn¡¯t acknowledged. He no longer had a name, and wasn¡¯t allowed to eat with his family, or look at, or even speak to them. He slept in the cellar, where there was no light or heat, even in the dead of summer.


    His mother was his only hope, but even then, all her attempts came to naught in the end. Henry was stolid and impassive, immoveable as a mountain. Regardless of what her efforts did to help Will, they only led to more tension between her and Henry. From his bed, in the middle of the night, Will could hear the sound and fury building to an earth-shattering climax, and shivered in fear. They were both drunk, for his mother had just come home from a night out with another man, and he could hear his father calling her every cruel name in existence. Then he fell asleep, and the day after, they continued on as if nothing had happened¡ªas though all those vicious, hateful words had been a nightmare, and now they were awake.


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    After every argument, his mother packed an overnight bag and set off in the middle of the night. After she left, his father slapped him from one side of the kitchen to the other. He lay on the floor, without the strength to stand. His father pulled him up and shouted in his face. In these moments, his message was always the same: Will was the reason their lives were coming apart. Often, he was so exhausted that his only escape from reality was to stare down at the lines of linoleum and pray to a god he didn¡¯t believe in.


    By the time he was five years old, Will¡¯s teacher, Miss Mary Meyers, had begun to take a special interest in him. She questioned his attentiveness during lesson. All of his lies could not convince her of something she didn¡¯t want to believe. She continued to pry about the condition of his clothes and the bruises that painted his body.


    The months crept by, and Miss Meyers became more persistent, until she finally reported her concerns to the headmaster, who rang his father. After that, he became more violent than ever, and met with the headmaster the next day to justify all the false accusations. By the end of the night, Will¡¯s nose was leaking blood like a tap, and he was missing one of his milk teeth.


    He went to school the next day in the same uniform he had worn for the past two years, with his ragged shoes and threadbare satchel, which only had one strap. Because he was no longer a member of the family, he wasn¡¯t allowed to ride in the car. Instead, he walked everywhere he went. During lunch, he stood at the drinking fountain, gulping down water to stave away the pain in his stomach and listening to his peers poke fun at him. He had no one to talk to or play with¡ªbut if we¡¯re being honest, that was nothing new.


    At home, he stood for hours in the dark, musty wine cellar, passing the time by inventing new ways to steal food. He had reached the point in starvation where he could feel that he was dying. His mother occasionally tried to feed him, with remarkably little success. Will knew that if he survived this, it would be of his own volition. He had exhausted all possibilities when it came to school¡ªnow, everyone hid their lunches or locked them in the supply closet, and the teachers kept an eye on him.


    So, that was the end of stealing food at school.


    That is, until he devised a plan that just might work. Students weren¡¯t allowed to leave the courtyard during break, so it was unlikely that anyone would expect him to leave. After all, how often does a five-year-old run away from school, in search of food? His idea was to slip away while the others were rounded up for lunch, and make it to the supermarket, where he stole crackers, biscuits, and sweets¡ªwhatever he could find.


    In the morning, as he walked to school, he counted every step. In the afternoon, he plotted the route in his head. After two weeks, he had all the information he needed. The only thing left to do was muster up the courage to enact his plan. Each day, he pushed himself to run faster, slamming his feet down on the pavement until he couldn¡¯t feel the ground beneath them. As the days ticked forward and the plan solidified in his mind, the hunger was replaced by daydreaming. But it was always interrupted by that old, familiar pain, and his thoughts circled back to stealing food. Will knew his plan was perfect, but was still afraid to act on it, and so stepped forward, then back again, making excuses for his lack of courage. He worried that his timing was inaccurate, and about what would happen if he was caught.


    Finally, after a week with nothing but a burnt triangle of toast and a handful of aspirin for a splitting headache, he decided it was time. After the bell rang, he was hurtling over the fence, down the street, heart hammering in his chest. He made it to the shops in record time.


    Walking up and down the aisles, he felt as if everyone was staring at him. He was doomed to fail, all because he hadn¡¯t considered what others would think or do, and the more he worried, the more his stomach clenched inward, until he nearly vomited up the one thing he¡¯d had to eat since the weekend before. He reached out blindly, thinking of all the times he had been starving, and broke into a run, before anyone could catch him. When he looked down, in his hands was a box of chocolate galettes, clutched so tightly the cardboard was caving in.


    As he approached the school, he hid the box under his coat, then climbed up on the bins and crawled through the window, landing in the boys¡¯ toilets. Once inside, he tucked it under the heaps of used paper towels, where no one would think to touch it. At the end of the day, he returned, eager to devour the biscuits, but his heart sunk to the floor, because the bin was empty. All that planning, and all that foolish hope that finally, finally he would have something to eat¡­ it had all been for nothing.


    His father knew why he stole, but still refused to feed him. And the longer it became, the more Will schemed of ways to get it.


    After dinner, his family scraped what remained on their plates into the bin, and Will was called up from the cellar, where he¡¯d been standing for hours, because it was time for the washing up.


    Standing there, hands peeling away in the scalding rinse water, he could almost taste the morsels in the bin. At first, it was unthinkable, but the longer he went without food, and the longer he had to consider it, the more enticing it seemed, until finally he fell to his knees and began to pick through it, flicking away bits of paper and still-warm cigarette butts. His revelry came to an abrupt halt when his father caught him in the act.


    After that, Will gave up, focusing his attention on finding another way to steal food at school. His next idea was to take the pre-packaged food from the cafeteria when no one was looking. While the others were playing games in the gym, he crept to the cafeteria and snatched bags from the slit-open boxes that had just arrived. Then he scurried off to the toilets, where he ate frost-bitten cheese pies and caramel tarts so quickly he nearly choked.


    As he walked home that day, all he could think of was the next time he would eat. Unfortunately, it was only a matter of minutes after he walked in that he was being dragged into the bathroom and struck so hard in the stomach that he folded in two. Turning him around sharply, facing the toilet, Henry rammed two fingers between his teeth, as though attempting to pull his stomach up through his throat. Will bit down like a rabid animal. But even then, his father only agreed to release him if he agreed to vomit. And so, Will did as he asked, and bits of cheese and caramel spilled into the toilet.


    Henry stood behind him, hands on his hips. Will tensed in anticipation of the blows to come, but they never did. Will turned back, to find that he¡¯d left the bathroom, returning and ordering that Will scoop the masticated food out of the toilet and put it in a bucket.


    Later that night, he made Will stand beside the dining room table. Before him was the bucket of caramel-coloured vomit. He could hardly bear to look at it, and so closed his eyes and detached himself from the cold tiles on which he stood. But his father was relentless, and when he returned to the kitchen, he ordered Will to eat it. There was no further hope of a truce.


    And so, he took a seat at the table and lowered his hand into the bowl. Thick saliva slipped through his fingers as he dropped the half-digested food into his mouth. He forced himself to swallow, and began to whimper, breaking out in a cold sweat. He swallowed without tasting, sinking deeper into the chair. His eyes burned, and tears cascaded down his cheeks. He tilted his head back and let what remained run down his throat. He closed his eyes, trying to keep himself from being violently sick, but was unsuccessful. Instead, he leaned over and coughed it all back up again. Hot liquid splashed onto his bare feet. When he opened his eyes, mouth dripping with vomit and tears, he looked at his mother, who was staring down at him with a horrified expression.


    His father told him he had two choices: either he ate it off the floor, like a dog, or he would sleep in it. Annalise turned away, holding a hand to her mouth, as not to bear witness to his suffering. Choking back tears, Will chose the latter.


    That long night of lying awake gave him time to think. Perhaps if he ate in the morning, it would be gone by the time he came home from school. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, so he would have time to scavenge for food. But, one day, he altered his course, and stopped to knock on the door of the old Italian lady across the street. He knew just by looking at her that this poor woman pitied him, and that he was about to take advantage of that. She didn¡¯t speak English, but she knew that he was hungry, as all grandmothers do. So, he sat at her table and ate everything she gave him¡ªragu, caponata, zeppole¡ªuntil he couldn¡¯t take another bite.


    For a long time, this worked. Until the woman, who had been learning English to be able to speak to him, asked why his parents didn¡¯t feed him. She knew that he lived across the street. She saw him coming out of the house every morning. Even before he left, he knew she would involve his father.


    That day, he prayed for a swift and painless death. Walking home, he felt as though his feet were encased in lead. With every step, he hoped he was mistaken. Above him, the skies were clear and blue, and he felt the sun¡¯s warmth on his back. He looked up, wondering if they would ever meet again.


    He carefully cracked the front door open before slipping inside, hurrying downstairs to the wine cave. He expected his father to come down and beat him to death any moment. But he never did.


    After changing out of his uniform, Will crept up to the kitchen and began washing the dishes from teatime. Now knowing where his father might be, he listened closely. His every muscle was tense with fear. His hands shook, and he could hardly concentrate.


    Then, finally, Death came to take its toll. It came, and it was insidious, so slow and quiet you almost wouldn¡¯t even know it was there. Finally, Will heard him coming. For a fleeting moment, he looked out the kitchen window and considered jumping through it. He heard the laughter and screams of children playing outside. He closed his eyes and imagined that he was one of them, but the moment was gone all too quickly. A strange and beautiful warmth filled him from the inside out, and he couldn¡¯t help but smile.


    His heart skipped a beat when he felt a breath on his neck. Startled, he dropped a plate, but before it could shatter, he snatched it out of mid-air.


    Will waited for him to strike. Instead, he stayed behind him, watching his every move. Will could see the reflection of his own dead-white face in the window, and his father¡¯s behind it.


    When he had finished the washing up, he began to clean the bathroom, and his father stood in the doorway, watching. While he was on hands and knees, scrubbing the tiles, Henry calmly lowered down against the opposite wall, never once taking his eyes off him. Will¡¯s anxiety could not be quieted or contained. He knew he would be beaten, but now when or how. It seemed hours before he finished the bathroom. When he did, he was quivering with anticipation.


    By suppertime, after a long day of worrying, Will was exhausted. He almost fell asleep as he waited for his father to summon him to clear the table. Standing alone in that frigid cave, something dark and evil blossomed inside of him. All he wanted was to dash himself dead against the floor, but without permission, he couldn¡¯t move a muscle. Now he knew why his father had followed his every move: to maintain a constant pressure, never letting him know when that fragile patience would snap. But before this thought could spiral any further, his father called out to him from the head of the staircase.


    After he was through, Will was sent back to the cellar to wait. As he did, sweat cascaded down every inch of his body, seeping down to the bone. When his head lolled forward, he snapped it upright, waking himself. No matter what he did, he couldn¡¯t control the movement of his head, as it bobbed up and down like a cork on the sea. In this trancelike state, he felt light as a feather, soul lifting from his physical form, until his head pitched forward again, jolting him awake. He knew better than to fall asleep, for it meant certain death, and so he stared at the wall, escaping into his mind, where he imagined the sweep of headlights across a pitch-black street, and the blinking of airplanes overhead.


    He dreaded every step as he mounted the stairs. He knew this was the end; that his time had come, and a strange calmness filled his soul. The house was dark, save for a single light in the kitchen. He could see his father sitting at the dining room table, and paused. Henry smiled, and a breath of ice passed down Will¡¯s back. His thoughts became clouded, trance breaking when his father rose, knelt beside the sink, opened the cabinet, and removed a bottle of bleach. Will only wished he didn¡¯t understand.


    Bottle in hand, Henry started toward him. Bleach dripped from the opening, splattering across the floor. Will backed away, until he came up sharp against a wall. Before he could move, or speak, or cry out, the bottle was rammed into his mouth, and his head tipped back. He couldn¡¯t breathe. His throat seized. He swayed, feeling as though his eyes were about to burst from his head. He fell forward, pounding the tiles with all his strength. His fingernails raked across the floor, vision narrowing down to a single point. The colours all ran together, watery, and so much brighter than they were in reality.


    Then he came back to his senses, struck sharply on the back. The force of the blow brought air back into his throat, and he was able to drag in a life-saving breath. As he kneeled on the floor, choking, his father returned to his brandy. He took a long sip, then blew a mist of burning air in Will¡¯s direction. He finished his glass before dismissing him back to the cellar.


    The morning after, Will stared into the looking glass, looking at his tongue. Layers of burning red flesh had been stripped away. Those remaining were raw and flaming. He stood there in disbelief, realising how lucky he was to be alive.


    But not every incident was a victory on his father¡¯s part. Though Will was caught in most of his attempts to find sustenance, he couldn¡¯t be caught every time. After months of being confined in the cellar, he gathered the courage to steal from the freezer. He knew he would pay dearly for it, and so ate every bit as though it had been touched by angels; as though it were his last, because it very well could be. In the darkness, he closed his eyes, dreaming that he was a king clad in the finest robes, dining on the best in the world. And as he held a waffle or round of ice-encrusted bread, Will finally saw light at the end of the tunnel.

 IV - The Gutting

    THE END OF our story happened in the autumn of 2001, and that is where Will¡¯s life, as opposed to his physical existence, truly begins. He wasn¡¯t quite seven, but knew what to expect¡ªstarvation, beatings, or a new, more hideous form of punishment. Most of the time, he was able to anticipate what would happen next.


    And so, the summer faded away, as did Will¡¯s enthusiasm.


    This day began like every other. He hadn¡¯t eaten in three.


    Because the beginning of the autumn term was only a week away, all hope of being fed had evaporated. As always, during dinner, he sat on the steps, listening intently to the sounds of his family eating. He let his head fall forward, and must have fallen asleep, for he was startled awake by an angry voice, saying: ¡°Come on, Will!¡±


    At the first syllable, his head snapped back to centre. He leapt to his feet, dashing up the stairs. He prayed for even the smallest bite of food, if it would soothe the aching of his stomach. He cleared the table at a feverish pace, and then returned to the kitchen.


    His father took up a hunting knife, gleaming on the counter, and whispered: ¡°If you¡¯re not done in twenty minutes, you¡¯ll find yourself at the other end of this knife.¡±


    But his words had no effect. This wasn¡¯t the first time he had threatened Will with death. He ran to the sink, and the clock ticked down. When he glanced up, his father had begun to spin the blade in one hand. His eyes were glazed over, and something deep inside of Will urged that something terrible was about to happen. He turned back to the sink and scrubbed furiously, with all his might. The dishes piled up in the drainboard, until there was only one left. But just as he finished it:


    Tick. Tick. Time.


    That was when he saw a blur of silver rushing forward. A sharp pain thrust upward into his stomach as the blade pierced his abdomen. He shouted, and the knife slid out, clattering to the floor. He stood there for a moment, in a puddle of blood. Then his legs fell out from under him, and he descended into darkness, all-consuming and infinite.


    When he regained consciousness, it was to feel a vital warmth flowing from his abdomen. It took a moment to realise where he was: propped up against the toilet, seated on the bathroom floor. His eyes slid downward. Henry was on his knees beside him, hastily applying a thick fold of gauze to Will¡¯s stomach, where dark blood flowed in long, thin lines to the floor. The gauze was plastered down, then a white bandage wrapped round his torso to hold it in place. He knew it was delusional, but he couldn¡¯t help hoping that this was somehow an accident; that his father hadn¡¯t meant to hurt him. He forgave him silently, too faint to speak. Then he returned to the darkness.


    There was no remorse in his father¡¯s eyes as he stood and washed the blood from his hands, telling Will he had fifteen minutes to finish the washing up, or he would come back and put him out of his misery. Will shook his head. At first, he didn¡¯t understand. Then he did: he wasn¡¯t to acknowledge what happened, and neither would anyone else. There was no time for self-pity; no time to die. He rose, swaying, and made his way to the kitchen. With every step, pain ripped through his ribs and blood soaked the bandage. By the time he reached the sink, he was bent over and panting.


    He looked down and saw droplets of red staining his feet. He wished he could escape, but the searing pain brought him back to reality every time.


    He washed the dishes as quickly as his injury would allow. Moving his arms resulted in a sharp pain above his stomach. If he stepped from the wash basin to the rinse one, another coursed through his body, so he limited how often he did, feeling his strength circling the drain. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and succumb to his injuries, but he kept moving.


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    By standing on his toes and leaning against the counter, the pressure on his abdomen was relieved. But after drying the plates came putting them back in the cabinets, which were high above his head. Reaching up to them would cause unspeakable pain. Holding a small saucer, Will rose as far as he could and lifted his arms above his head, then abruptly dropped them, pleating to the ground. By then, his jumper was stiff and saturated with blood. His hands closed round the edge of the countertop, but before he could do it himself, a pair of gentle hands helped him up.


    Stealing a glance out the window, Will could see the twilight being overtaken by the same darkness that filled his soul. Before he knew it, he was being lifted and carried outside, set down on his own two feet along the dusty drive. His siblings looked him over, but were far more interested in their mother, who was lighting the bonfire for Guy Fawkes Day. Henry held him by the shoulders as it burst to life, and they were blinded by the dazzling light. For a moment, he thought he detected a faint trace of his father¡¯s cologne, which he used to wear every day, but hadn¡¯t in a very long time. He stepped toward the fire, feeling a warmth spark within¡ªone which he thought had been buried forever.


    Then the East wind blew, and the fire burned brighter. Will turned toward the retreating sun. It had been a lifetime since he¡¯d watched the sunset. He closed his eyes, soaking in the last few minutes of heat. For a fleeting moment, the pain disappeared. He was warm, and unbearably alive.


    BACK IN THE cave, he laid on the floor, trying to ignore the pain, but it was impossible. It raced through his every muscle and vein until exhaustion took over, and he drifted off to sleep.


    Throughout the night, he was plagued by nightmares. He startled himself, waking in a cold sweat. From the shadows came a figure so frightening he couldn¡¯t keep from crying out. But it was only his mother, who applied a cold compress to his forehead and gave him pills to lower his fever.


    Soon, he drifted back to sleep, and with it came a dream of hot red rain, falling in thick sheets. He was soaked to the bone. When he woke, his hands were crusted with blood. The shirt he was wearing was dripping with it, and so was his face. He looked up at the sound of a voice calling his name. Will had expected sympathy, as there had been the night before, but it was empty hope, yet again. In a cold voice, he was told it was time to clear the table.


    That was when he knew that nothing had changed.


    THREE DAYS after the incident, Will continued to feel feverish.


    The slit in his abdomen opened again that night. Quietly, he crept to the sink. Using the most sterile flannel he could find, he cracked open the tap just enough to allow a thin stream of water to pass through, spilling onto the cloth. He sat down and removed his shirt. He touched the wound, flinching at the sudden, white-hot flare of pain. He drew in a breath and pinched it closed. The pain was so completely inhuman that he threw his head back against the wall, almost bludgeoning himself against it.


    When he looked down at his stomach again, he saw thick white liquid beginning to well around the slash. Will was far too young to know what an infection was, but he did know that the wound was well on its way to becoming deadly¡ªand, for the first time in a long time, he was right. He started up the stairs to ask for help in swabbing the wound, but when he stood, he found himself hesitating. He was almost seven. He knew how to clean a wound. He wanted desperately to be in control of himself, and not to rely on anyone else, nor allow them any measure of dominion over him.


    He wet the flannel once more and brought it down to the gash. He paused before touching it, hands trembling. Tears streamed down his face and splashed upon the floor. He moved quickly, before the nerve slipped away. He took another cloth, folded it in four, and tucked it into his mouth, focusing all his attention on dabbing at the infected fluid, until blood seeped through. The pain was almost more than he could stand. Teeth clamped tightly down on the flannel, his screaming was muffled. When he had finished, a river of tears soaked his chest.


    Fearing that he would be caught, he cleared the mess he¡¯d made, then returned to his place on the lowest step. Before he sat down, he checked the bandage. Only small droplets of red had escaped from the wound to the dressing. He willed it to mend, although he had no say in such things. It would heal eventually, and with this knowledge came a great fatigue. He slumped forward into a dark, heavy sleep.

 V - Colder By the Minute

    AFTER THE GUTTING, Annalise no longer lived in their house on the days she wasn¡¯t in court, coming in only for a moment, to gather her things and say her goodbyes. When she spoke to Will, she assured him that she would be back, this time to take Henry to court and win custody of her children. This made him smile, though he knew she way lying for his sake. She knelt down and took his hands, begging him for forgiveness. Will looked her in the eyes, searching for that person she used to be. The change in her was frightening to a little boy, who had only ever wanted his mother. Beneath her eyes were deep black shadows, and her face was hollowed-out and lifeless. Her once strong and confident shoulders hung limp. Her brilliant golden hair was going grey. Before she left that day, Will threw his arms round her waist and held on tight, until he was peeled away from her.


    After she walked out of their lives, Will was starved for ten consecutive days. It no longer mattered if he met the time constraints of his father¡¯s commandments¡ªstill, he would have nothing to eat. Henry was very thorough in ensuring that he couldn¡¯t steal food, even when his stomach felt as though it were turning inside out and eating itself alive. He cleared the supper dishes himself and threw the scraps over the fence to the neighbour¡¯s dog. He padlocked the refrigerator and kept the key in his pocket. Will was used to being starved for up to six days, but this was unbearable.


    By the seventh day, he was so weak that he could not stand without swaying. His limbs were going numb, and he was cold all the time. To his father, this was just another game, but to Will, it was life or death. At the end of the eighth day, he would¡¯ve been satisfied with a rotting steak, if only it would quiet the pain.


    Then, one October evening, the food he had craved for so long was dangled above his head. He was kneeling on hands and knees, panting in anticipation, like a dog awaiting a treat. The frost-cloaked pizza was a feast to his starving eyes. But he was wary, because nothing was ever simple where his father was concerned. He was told he had one minute to eat as much as he could, and so seized the opportunity and sat back on his heels, preparing to tear it apart. But the moment before his teeth sank into it, the pizza was gone, floating upside-down on the scummy water in the sink.


    Will was startled into submission. He didn¡¯t know what to say, and couldn¡¯t understand why his father treated him the way he did. He knew that what he wanted was for Will to give in and plunge his head into the water, but he didn¡¯t. He sat there, holding back tears. He was five seconds from losing all control.


    He craved food. He craved forgiveness. But, more than anything, he craved an ounce of respect. He wished it hadn¡¯t ended this way; that his skin had not acquired a faint grey tint, muscles thin and fragile. There was hardly enough meat left to cover his bones.


    Ten days, he was starved. Ten days, he wished for death.


    On the final day, a peeled orange was dangled above his head. He knew it would soon he gone, and so moved with purpose. He didn¡¯t give his father a second chance, as he had the night before. He bit the orange out of his hand, ripping it apart, then swallowed the pieces whole. Twenty-five seconds, it was gone.


    The next morning, Will was lashed to the doorknob of one of the empty bedrooms and beaten with a leather strap. It left him sprawled on the floor, where he lay unconscious for hours, as blood dripped down onto the floorboards and soaked into the wood. He had lost all faith in God. A dark shadow followed him everywhere he went.


    The next day, even the sun seemed to avoid him, hiding in a cloud cover that drifted overhead. He stood in the semi-darkness, releasing the tension in his shoulders and retreating into the solitude of his dreams.


    He did not know how much time passed before he heard the sound of a car pulling up to the curb. He climbed in, wondering what awaited him back at the house, and praying that it wasn¡¯t another flogging. Henry led Will inside, up to the bathroom, and his heart sank, for he knew that he was doomed.


    He watched timidly, shrinking back against the wall as his father turned on the cold tap in the bathtub. Will thought it odd that he had forgotten to turn on the hot one, as well, but said nothing. As the tub filled with freezing water, Will¡¯s clothes were torn from his body, and he was dropped into it. Fear coursed through his veins like a shot of ice.


    Henry pressed a hand to Will¡¯s head and pushed it beneath the surface of the water. Instinctively, he fought back, trying desperately to get back above the water. But his father was too strong, and he was still too small. Under the water, his eyes slid open, and he could see silver bubbles rising from his mouth. He snapped his head from side to side, as the bubbles became smaller and less frequent. His hands shot up out of the water and clutched his father¡¯s wrists. His fingernails broke through the fragile skin, blood burst forth, and he was released.


    Henry looked down at him, panting. Will submerged his head once more, keeping his nose barely above the surface. When his father left the room, his plan was undeniably clear. Will laid in the frigid water, as it became colder by the minute.


    Hours ticked by. Will lifted his head out of the water just enough to be able to hear stirrings from the rest of the house. Whenever anyone walked down the hall, he quietly slid his head back into the icy water.


    Before sitting down to supper, his father came in and told him to get out of the bathtub. He pulled on his clothes without drying off. The cuffs of his trousers dripped, and his feet slid across the tiles as he followed his father downstairs.


    Outside, the sun was setting, but half the garden was still bathed in light. He tried to sit on a bench in the sun, but was dragged to one in the shade. He wanted nothing more than a moment of heat, but with every passing minute, his chances of dying by hypothermia became greater than ever before. From the upstairs window, he could hear the sounds of his family having dinner. Once in a while, a burst of laughter escaped through the dining room windows. He wanted to look up, but didn¡¯t, for he lived in another world entirely, and did not deserve even a glance of the life he¡¯d been denied all these years.


    With the beginning of school came a temporary escape. Will¡¯s teacher was young, and far more lenient than any he¡¯d ever had. At the end of the first week, she rewarded those who behaved with sweets. Will didn¡¯t receive any the first week, nor the second, nor the third, and so promised himself that he would at the end of the month.


    On the last day before autumn break, Will dreaded stepping out the door, for it could very well be the last time. After the others had gone, Miss Perrin kneeled at his side and told him he had to go home. But he wanted to stay with this woman, who treated him far better than his own mother ever had. She held him for a moment, and it was just the two of them in all the world. Then she sent him away, and he left, not once looking back.


    Because he was late, he was dragged by the heels out to the garden, which was damp and cold, for it had rained the night before. That day, he looked up through the thick blanket of fog obscuring the sun and wept bitterly for the loss of true, unquestionable love. For the first time, he had been treated as though he mattered. The night before, he had even dreamt that someone loved him.


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    As he sat there, marinating in self-pity, he wondered where Miss Perrin had gone, and what she was doing. He didn¡¯t understand it at the time, but she was his first love.


    Sitting on the steps, he heard the sounds of life from behind. When he closed his eyes, he could see her red lips and smiling face floating in front of him. And as he shivered, the last light of day fading to black, the memory of her kindness kept him warm.


    IT WAS OCTOBER. Will was prey to the predators of the playpark, who beat him to a pulp every week. When the final bell rang, he walked home, to spill the contents of his stomach into the toilet. If his father was in a good mood, Will was made to stand in the perishing cold of the cellar until six o¡¯clock in the morning, when his father woke up to make breakfast. If he wasn¡¯t, Will was whipped with a belt soaked in vinegar. It was inhumanly, indescribably painful, but he clenched his teeth and bore it. He was always left hanging from the doorknob, waiting for divine mercy that never came.


    His fragile hope deteriorated, and he began to believe that nothing would change¡ªthat it would be this way for the rest of his life. With every passing hour, he became weaker, and it became devastatingly clear that all promises are broken in the end; that there is no such thing as infallible trust in this world.


    One morning, he went to the school infirmary, where the nurse inspected the state of his clothing and the weeping wounds along his forearms. At first, he obeyed his father¡¯s orders, but as his trust in her solidified, he began to tell her the truth: that he had found a razor blade in the cellar and used it; that his father beat him to within an inch of his life; that the shadow in the corner kept him awake at night, and the voices in his head were vicious and bloodthirsty. She took notes, telling him she would alert his teacher of his present mental condition, and that she would be in touch with a social worker and child psychologist as soon as possible. He learned only after that her profound interest in him had stemmed not from a place of kindness or concern, but because of the reports from Miss Perrin, which it was her duty to investigate.


    At the end of the month, it was tradition to carve pumpkins. Will had been denied this privilege for the past six years, for he was far too young to be handling a knife. But his sister was allowed to, and she was younger than him, wasn¡¯t she? The absurdity of the situation made him want to laugh through the tears. If only his father had any idea what happened in the cellar in the dead of night; if he knew that the stains on the ground weren¡¯t wine, but spilled blood. But would that really have changed anything?


    Instead, Henry filled the bathtub and warned Will once more about keeping his head underwater. He pushed his head under the surface and held it there, then stormed out, flicking off the light as he went. Looking to his right, Will could see through the window that night had befallen them.


    As the hours passed, his flesh became cold and hard¡ªand not in the normal way that comes from not moving, but the very same stiffness that comes of dying and becoming not a living thing, but a corpse. He leaned against the side of the bathtub, choking back tears. He could hear the delightful music of La Veille de la Toussaint through the door, and it made him want to crawl out of his skin. He pushed the world away and gazed out the window, wondering who else was looking up at those same stars.


    When the carving was finished, he could hear blood-chilling films playing, and the more he heard, the more he despised each and every one of them¡ªhis mother, father, and siblings, who were all perfectly happy without him. It was despicable to wait on the back step during dinner. But to be forced to wait in this ice-cold bathtub, shivering, while his brother and sister stuffed themselves like Christmas hens with popcorn and confectionaries; to lie in this porcelain coffin during the best and brightest time of the year? There was no word for that¡ªor, at least, he couldn¡¯t think of one.


    By Sunday, his spirit was drained. He detested going to Mass, and eagerly awaited the return to school.


    On Tuesday, his father came down with pneumonia. As his mother drove them to the hospice in Westminster, Will prayed that he would never return. After all, was it really cruel to want his father dead, after al he had done, or was it recompense for the unimaginable? That you must decide for yourself.


    The day he returned from hospital, Henry came into the bedroom, where Will was sitting on the floor, and kneeled down beside him. He told him that it was time to repay him for all the years they had lost to darkness and death. Will smiled brightly as he leapt into his father¡¯s arms, happy tears streaming down hi face. Henry cried too, and that was when it sank in that it was truly over. He looked deeply into his father¡¯s eyes, searching for that small part of him that must certainly be lying. But there was nothing.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ over?¡± he murmured.


    ¡°Yes, Will, it is.¡±


    He nodded, and there was nothing more to it than that. His father drew him a hot bath and brought him the new clothes he¡¯d received for Christmas the year before. He hadn¡¯t been allowed to wear it until then.


    For the first time, with the exception of the holidays, there were guests at the house, and Will sat down to supper at the dining room table. It all happened so quickly, and a quiet part of him felt that it was too good to be true, but he tamped it down until it was inaudible. He was happy, of course, but knew he was walking on eggshells. He thought for certain that his father would wake up one day and return to the person he used to be, but he didn¡¯t¡ªat least, not for a long time. Instead, Will stuffed himself to bursting every night, as though it were his last, because it very well could be.


    Then, one day, what he had been waiting for finally happened: a lady from social services came by. The nurse had promised Will that she would involve a social worker, and she had kept her word. Henry sent the children out to play¡ªall except for Will, who stayed behind, sitting in beside his father at the head of the table. He was asked if he was content in life, and assured her that he was. She wanted to know if he was treated well by his parents, and if he had ever been hit. At first, he didn¡¯t know how to answer, and so looked up at his father. He was smiling, but his eyes were dead. That was when the bomb went off in the pit of his stomach, erupting up through his every muscle and vein, setting his brain alight. It occurred to him now why his father had changed. Will was so completely starved of love that he had forgotten everything he knew, in the hope that he was wrong. So, this is what he got for trusting someone other than himself. He would never make the same mistake twice.


    A hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality.


    ¡°Go on, Will. Give the lady an answer.¡± Will looked up at the woman, and a sickening heat rose in his face, perspiration beading on his forehead. His head was spinning like a top.


    ¡°N-No,¡± he stuttered. ¡°No, my father would never hit me.¡± The scoreboard in his head illuminated once again. Ding! One point for Will. ¡°I¡¯m only punished when I misbehave.¡±


    He could tell by the resulting glare that he had chosen the wrong answer. The scoreboard flicked back down to zero. He had been groomed by his father to be a compulsive liar with no remorse, and now all that time and effort had been for nothing. He knew that the lady had seen the unspoken line of communication that ran between them¡ªwhich was really more of a metaphysical chokehold¡ªand that it worried her.


    But she did nothing, and he was left alone, again, and again, and again. When she had gone, Henry closed the door and whirled on Will with wildfire in his eyes. His hands flew up to shield his face, but it was too late. He was backed up sharp against the cellar door, then kicked down the stairs, sliding on his back into death. His head slammed on the stone floor at the bottom, and hot blood pooled in a ring round his shoulders. Will was unfathomably angry, without an ounce of remorse or regret for what he had done. He was right, and his father was wrong, and there was nothing more to it than that.


    A dark emptiness opened in the depths of his soul, rising up to the surface until it was all he knew. That quiet part of him had been right all along: Henry Claridge was incapable of love.


    But it was good while it lasted.

 VI - Save Me, Saint Jude

    IN DECEMBER, WILL came to believe that there was no God, and perhaps he was right. As he sat and read old, time-weathered books, he knew that this, the past and present, was also his future. He was alone, and there was nothing that could save him now. It was an endless uphill battle to survive the life he never even wanted. If he stayed, what was there left to see, or feel, or experience that could possibly be worth it? See, the hardest thing you could ever do is convince someone who does not want to be alive. Many will say that love is the meaning of life, but if there was ever a happy ending in store for him, this was it.


    That was when he detached himself from all physical pain. When he was beaten, it was only on the surface, and the bruises were only skin-deep, for his soul was untouchable. He built a biodome around his inner world and sealed himself inside. His emotions were a swirling black tempest of anger and fear, but on the outside, he never once revealed those emotions that threatened to eat him from the inside out. At night, he no longer dreamed. That temporary escape into the world of unconsciousness was a thing of the past. While he slept, his soul was consumed by a black void, closing over his head, flowing into nose, ears, and eyes. It came, and it was insidious. He woke in the morning feeling as though he were already dead, and his first thought was always, without fail, that he had one less day to be living. Devoid of imagination, he found that the words he had mistaken for reality were nothing but letters arranged into something so hollow and meaningless that he wondered why anyone even bothered.


    When he was fed, he devoured what he was given like a starving dog¡ªthat is, without pausing for breath, for fear of it being taken away. He no longer cared that he was laughed at as he choked down every bite. Nothing was below him. At night, he fell to the floor, crawling on hands and knees to the cat¡¯s bowl, and ate what remained of the glistening meat.


    Inside, he had turned against the very world itself. He hated the sun, for he would never again feel its warmth, and he hated the moon, because the night never ended. He hated the sound of laughter, and the smell of his mother¡¯s cooking, because they were a part of the living, breathing world.


    But, most of all, he hated his father, and he wished he were dead. But before Henry popped off and made himself at home in some miserable corner of Hell, Will wanted him to know the true meaning of suffering, and to reach the darkest depths of the human soul. He prayed in every spare moment, but was answered only once. When Henry kicked him down the stairs, Will dragged his broken body to a painting of the Crucifixion and begged God to punish his father, as he had brought the plagues upon Egypt. The morning after, Henry lost his job, and Will was satisfied.


    At his core, Will was a flaming ball of hatred and evil. He was quickly becoming a danger to himself and others. He blamed himself for the past, because he had allowed it to happen, and he blamed the world for taking its vengeance. He wanted the love that comes with life, and because he couldn¡¯t have it, he hated those who did.


    And that, I suppose, is where it all began. This was the first of many reasons that he would one day take his life.


    Few of us can imagine what it is like to be suicidal at six years old. He struggled to concentrate. Sometimes, he fell asleep at his desk, for he could no longer do so at night. Other times, his anger exploded without warning, and he stormed out in a black fury, fleeing down the corridor. When he reached the toilets, he collapsed on the floor, pounding his head against the tiles until he felt nothing but the searing pain. Then he curled into himself, and cried himself to sleep.


    But the strange part about it was that, although he wanted it to stop, he could not imagine a world without that ever-present darkness. It is impossible to explain to a person who has never felt it, but you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness. It is searching for a way out that doesn¡¯t exist, then seeking comfort in that which is destroying you. It takes a very strong person to return from that place.


    Before school was let out for winter break, Will received his biannual report, which said in fine print that he had the highest marks in his year. He was a brilliant child, with a very bright future ahead, and Miss Perrin took him aside to tell him so. He hadn¡¯t heard a kind word in so long that he fell into her arms and sobbed. At the end of the day, she gave him the card, and a letter to bring home to his parents.


    That day, Will felt like he was walking in the clouds. He ran faster than ever before, not feeling his feet strike the ground beneath them. But when his father tore open the envelope and read the report, he scoffed: ¡°So, you thought you finally proved yourself, didn¡¯t you?¡± he bent down, pointing a finger in Will¡¯s face. ¡°You were wrong. There is nothing you could ever do to impress me. You have failed me every single day, and you always will.¡±


    He threw the letter into the fire, and Will stood there, watching it blacken and change. He had given everything to accomplish just one thing worthy of recognition, and now he had been stripped of his very existence. His father was many things, but not a liar¡ªat least, not in that moment. Will wished his heart would give out right there, but it didn¡¯t.


    Instead, he fell to his knees and watched the letter burn. He reached into the fire, trying to put the ashes back together again, even as the flames licked at his hands and set his sleeves alight, for he didn¡¯t feel it as his hands blistered and blazed. But it would never come back together again, and nothing hurts worse than a broken heart.


    After that, Will became determined to end his life. He purposefully irritated his father, hoping to provoke him enough to provide a swift and painless death. When he was locked in the bathroom with only a bucket of watered-down bleach for company, Will sat on the floor and drank it until there was nothing left. Then he got up and kneeled beside the bathtub, vomiting blood until he fainted dead away. He hadn¡¯t even known he had that much to lose, and wouldn¡¯t have believed it if he hadn¡¯t seen it with his own eyes.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    When the door opened at long last, Will stumbled out into the hallway, but was caught by the wrist and pulled back. The bucket was emptied into the sink and filled with undiluted bleach. He was nearly drowned when his head was pushed beneath the surface. But he fought back, because this wasn¡¯t how he wanted it to end, and the plan was foiled.


    As Christmas approached, Henry was equally ruthless with his wife. On the rare occasions that she did come home, he fought with her from the second she walked through the door until the moment she slammed it in his face. He beat her, and made her feel as though she had no right to even be alive. Then he banned her from the house, and the only time the children saw her was when they drove to Westminster at the end of every month to collect their cut of her pay cheque.


    On the last day before they left for Z¨¹rich, Henry invited his wife over to say goodbye. Seconds, minutes, and hours slipped by, as night fell, and dinner came to an end. She was supposed to arrive at seven, and every time Will heard a passing car or saw a flare of headlights, he dashed to the door, waiting to greet her with open arms.


    When she finally came stumbling in at eleven o¡¯clock, it was with a strange man on her arm. She passed them by without a word, stumbling down the hall to the bedroom. Will followed after her, in disbelief. He¡¯d never seen anyone half as intoxicated as she was that night. Her eyes were bloodshot, and he could smell vodka on her breath from across the room. He knew, even without asking, that there was more alcohol than blood pumping through her veins.


    She had come to fetch her belongings. The man helped her bring them out to the step, and as he carried them to the car, Annalise knelt down in front of Will and told him she loved him for the last time. He threw his arms around her neck, begging her not to leave. But she did, and there was nothing he could do to stop her.


    FOR A WHILE, Annalise and Henry tried to be civil with each other. They went to therapy three times a week, argued behind closed doors, and cried in the dead of night, when the world around them slowed to a halt. But by the end of that month, they had both come to the end of their rope. They were weary, and exhausted at the thought of pretending that everything was alright, when it so clearly wasn¡¯t. There are only so many nights you can lie awake, wondering when and if you will be granted the mercy of dying in your sleep.


    The day they left for Switzerland, Will sat in the corner, watching his siblings pack everything they owned into a suitcase, because after this, they weren¡¯t coming back. There was nothing to return to, and no one waiting for them. He prayed for the family that had forsaken him, and that they could learn to love again, if only for this one Christmas. But as he sat in the airport that evening, watching the snow fall, he knew that if God intended his parents to be happy, he also intended Will to be dead. It is the final resolution; the only true end in existence.


    Meanwhile, Henry packed his wife¡¯s belongings in boxes, which he loaded into the car, before driving the children to Westminster, where she was waiting at St. Ermin¡¯s Hotel. Only she had the money to spend on luxury, for now that she was gone, they had nothing.


    After years of unanswered prayers, Will knew that it was over: his parents were separating. He was so anxious that he couldn¡¯t release his clenched fists, even when blood flowed and his fingernails tore into his palms.


    While James and Juliet were in their mother¡¯s room, sprawling on her bed and fighting over the truffles on her pillow, Will sat in the car, watching his hands shake. He hated her for leaving them behind; for abandoning him in his hour of need. That was when he knew there is no such thing as a saviour in this world.


    Before they left, Henry rolled down the window on the passenger side, where Will was sitting. Annalise leaned down and handed him a small box wrapped in red paper¡ªhis one and only Christmas present. It was her wedding ring, engraved with a promise on the inside: TOGETHER IN PARIS. Will wore it until the day he died, from a string around his neck. He knew his mother was relieved, but still she could not stop herself from crying as the car peeled away from the curb and disappeared into the downtown traffic.


    THE DRIVE TO Heathrow was quiet. When the children spoke amongst themselves, it was in hushed tones that wouldn¡¯t upset their father. They were nine, six, and five, but still they discussed their future in solemn council, as though they were old and grey. They were so absorbed by their conversation, and by each other that they hardly noticed when they turned on their exit, and they were offered coffee for the very first time.


    As ever, Will was left alone while they went into the caf¨¦. Their lives were separate and distant from his, because no one had ever thought to invite him in. A black hole, dark and vast, was opening inside of him. People always say that life is full of choices, but no one ever mentions fear or the feeling of emptiness unlike anything you have ever known; so much nothingness that it swallows you whole. He was in so deep, it was easier to just swim down.


    He sat there, staring out the window at the wide, open sky. It was a dull grey, and just beginning to snow. The day was cold and forbidding, and droplets of moisture were slowly gathering on the glass, solidifying along with the ice in his stomach. The clock was ticking down to that single, horrible moment he never truly thought would come, and nothing on earth can stop the sun from setting on that final day. Will wanted nothing more than to get out of the car and run until his legs gave out, but he was too afraid to move. He would never forgive himself for that weakness, when he gave in to his impulses and clutched the gift from his mother, leaning over and pressing his nose to the wrapping, hoping that there would be even the slightest trace of her perfume¡ªthat there was just one sliver of proof that somewhere in this world, she still existed. But there was nothing.


    He began to cry until he couldn¡¯t breathe; until there was nothing left but the infinite, all-consuming darkness. It was a moment that words didn¡¯t reach, and suffering too terrible to name. The water closed over his head, cutting off all breath, all sound, all thought beyond the realisation that he was about to die.


    A small sound brought him back to reality, and he looked up, to find that his family was approaching the car. He sank back into the seat, quickly returning to his hardened exterior, which knew no fear. If this was it, he was ready.


    But before the doors opened, and the world came to an end, Will clasped his hands together, closing his eyes. And for the first time in a long time, he prayed: ¡°Save me, Saint Jude, helper and keeper of the hopeless. Have mercy, and deliver me from evil. Amen.¡±