Read Online Retard by Daniel I Russell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daniel I Russell
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didn’t help either. The fresh and soapy scents from Wesley’s fun in the bathroom still filled the landing, but in here it smelled like a zoo. How long had it been? A day? Two? Her vodka-addled head failed to grip the numbers.
“Please.”
Christine froze at the word. It had leaked from the darkness; the croak of a swollen toad in a dank, stinking cave, or the voice of a troll under a bridge, asking for help, deceiving and evil.
“Wesley?”
Silence for a moment, followed by another dry, weak “Please.”
Her fingers had found only smooth wallpaper but now she felt the plastic casing of the light switch and turned it on.
Wesley’s room looked the same as ever: toys scattered about the carpet and brightly painted, mismatched wooden furniture pushed against the walls, his desk piled high with books, paper and pens.
Her son lay in bed on top of his blankets, watching her. He seemed thinner than ever, his eyes small yet sharp. His narrow chest barely rose with each breath, and she heard each one, a pant like a dog trapped in a hot car.
“Drink,” he hissed, staring at the glass in her hand.
“Jesus,” muttered Christine, stepping closer.
His left cheek seemed flatter compared to its counterpart, the eye above it bloodshot and shimmering with tears. It burned a fevered crimson.
“Drink…”
Reacting, she nearly handed him the vodka. “I…I’ll get you one.”
Leaving him delirious on the bed, Christine retreated from the room and staggered onto the landing, the glass to her lips. The vodka was gone in three quick swallows.
***
He lay dozing on the sofa, his head propped up with pillows, his feet resting in her lap. They both stared blankly at the small television screen. To try and make him feel better, Christine had played his Fabled Four video, the one Sally had made him, taping an episode over the last few Saturday mornings. Wesley had watched it over and over again already but never seemed to grow weary of the repeated adventures and quests. In this particular episode, the boy—who she believed to be some kind of shit magician?—had made friends with a race of tiny bug creatures. The swarm followed him around; an obedient pet that looked like an oil spill. Christine couldn’t think of anything creepier.
She’d been keeping a close eye on his cheek. Wesley had perked up a little after a slow drink of water followed by a few rounds of buttered toast but still appeared weak and not quite himself yet.
Christine had allowed herself a small smile. At least he’d sleep well.
His cheek proved painful to the touch, and the corner of his eye had descended to an angrier scarlet. The actual cheek though, the way it looked half-deflated, bothered her the most. She concluded that she may have fractured his cheek bone.
Christine had been quick to medicate. With the last of the vodka gone, she had plunged to the very far reaches of the kitchen cupboard, finding a sliver of rum and the small bottle of clear liquid Sally had brought her back from Majorca. It was a step up from drinking detergent, although it tasted the same, especially with the lemonade gone. She avoided the green spirit at the back.
It didn’t make the problem disappear but prevented the nerves from taking over…for the time being.
The lounge room spun, and the cartoon made no sense. Christine sat at the end of the sofa, rubbing Wesley’s feet with one hand and taking a drink with the other.
I could go to prison for this, she thought, the realisation hitting her like a sick joke. Wouldn’t that be a fitting end? I try and do the right thing by Wesley, raise him right despite his ways. What do I get for it? Locked up to be fisted by the big bull dykes while he gets sent to some cushy foster family. Probably let him do whatever he wants, get him everything he desires, like all those posh cunts at the party.
Another long sip from the half-glass; it didn’t taste as bad any more.
Wesley had finally fallen asleep.
Christine
“Please.”
Christine froze at the word. It had leaked from the darkness; the croak of a swollen toad in a dank, stinking cave, or the voice of a troll under a bridge, asking for help, deceiving and evil.
“Wesley?”
Silence for a moment, followed by another dry, weak “Please.”
Her fingers had found only smooth wallpaper but now she felt the plastic casing of the light switch and turned it on.
Wesley’s room looked the same as ever: toys scattered about the carpet and brightly painted, mismatched wooden furniture pushed against the walls, his desk piled high with books, paper and pens.
Her son lay in bed on top of his blankets, watching her. He seemed thinner than ever, his eyes small yet sharp. His narrow chest barely rose with each breath, and she heard each one, a pant like a dog trapped in a hot car.
“Drink,” he hissed, staring at the glass in her hand.
“Jesus,” muttered Christine, stepping closer.
His left cheek seemed flatter compared to its counterpart, the eye above it bloodshot and shimmering with tears. It burned a fevered crimson.
“Drink…”
Reacting, she nearly handed him the vodka. “I…I’ll get you one.”
Leaving him delirious on the bed, Christine retreated from the room and staggered onto the landing, the glass to her lips. The vodka was gone in three quick swallows.
***
He lay dozing on the sofa, his head propped up with pillows, his feet resting in her lap. They both stared blankly at the small television screen. To try and make him feel better, Christine had played his Fabled Four video, the one Sally had made him, taping an episode over the last few Saturday mornings. Wesley had watched it over and over again already but never seemed to grow weary of the repeated adventures and quests. In this particular episode, the boy—who she believed to be some kind of shit magician?—had made friends with a race of tiny bug creatures. The swarm followed him around; an obedient pet that looked like an oil spill. Christine couldn’t think of anything creepier.
She’d been keeping a close eye on his cheek. Wesley had perked up a little after a slow drink of water followed by a few rounds of buttered toast but still appeared weak and not quite himself yet.
Christine had allowed herself a small smile. At least he’d sleep well.
His cheek proved painful to the touch, and the corner of his eye had descended to an angrier scarlet. The actual cheek though, the way it looked half-deflated, bothered her the most. She concluded that she may have fractured his cheek bone.
Christine had been quick to medicate. With the last of the vodka gone, she had plunged to the very far reaches of the kitchen cupboard, finding a sliver of rum and the small bottle of clear liquid Sally had brought her back from Majorca. It was a step up from drinking detergent, although it tasted the same, especially with the lemonade gone. She avoided the green spirit at the back.
It didn’t make the problem disappear but prevented the nerves from taking over…for the time being.
The lounge room spun, and the cartoon made no sense. Christine sat at the end of the sofa, rubbing Wesley’s feet with one hand and taking a drink with the other.
I could go to prison for this, she thought, the realisation hitting her like a sick joke. Wouldn’t that be a fitting end? I try and do the right thing by Wesley, raise him right despite his ways. What do I get for it? Locked up to be fisted by the big bull dykes while he gets sent to some cushy foster family. Probably let him do whatever he wants, get him everything he desires, like all those posh cunts at the party.
Another long sip from the half-glass; it didn’t taste as bad any more.
Wesley had finally fallen asleep.
Christine
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