The Whipping Boy

Nobody told me what a thread count was. At this moment I only knew I had never paid this close of attention to the way my blanket was constructed. I noticed the green loops that represented grass and the white loops tightly sewn together that made up the uniforms. I clench my eyes tight and bit down hard on the comforter as the lash whips down missing its mark and slapping the tender area in the back of my upper leg. I can feel it instantly swell. But I don’t holler out. That’s weakness and that trait will only bring more lashings. I can feel my saliva build up and escape from the sides of my mouth, the loops are saturated now.

The grass has a section that is now a much darker green. Scattered nearby are other darker speckles, no doubt from my tears. Like a sixth sense I feel when a lash slices the air and then tags my bottom flush with a very audible snap. I may be able to control my screams through familiarization and repetition, but my body twitches cannot be negotiated with. I jerk and twitch my legs like watching a flaccid garden hose spring to life when water is turned on to full compacity

Again! The stinging is more frequent now. It must be nearing the finale. Good, being the whipping boy was never a title or duty I much enjoyed. The stale heat of the still room gives thoughts of better days, but only for a moment. The stillness is brief as my hands clenched the bedding. My pulse is steady, fast, but steady. I can see the hatred, disappointment and disdain. I can feel it too. It’s an acquired taste. I however, am not alone, my struggle is shared.

My major league baseball bedding will help me through. It will have to put up with biting and clenching and the stains of my tears. Tired and ashamed I hope this ends soon, I want it to be over, I want to wrap myself in my comforter and warm my nerves on the thoughts of kindness. But reality does not make exceptions. I cannot shake the moniker on this day, I am the whipping boy.

Thank you for reading


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