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Zack hides under his bed, the fresh burns pressing into the ground. It hurts, but he can't lie on his front. That just leaves him in anticipation of more. It's fine. It'll hurt however he lies. Whatever he does. It will always hurt.
He was trying so hard to be good. He always tries so hard to be good. But they punish him anyway. He wouldn't dare complain, he knows that he deserves it. But it still hurts so much.
A tap on the door. He flinches, although he knows it can't be his teachers. They would never knock. "Zack?" His dad calls through the door.
He stays very still and very quiet. Like 'hide from the mage', the game he played when he was little. In the playground at school, or with his parents around the house. You hide, you stay very still, you stay very quiet. If you don't, the mage gets you. When he played with his parents, they would always tickle him when they found him. Now he doesn't play games. But he is better at hiding.
A more insistent knock. He winces. He can't hide today. "Come in." He starts shuffling out from under the bed.
Not fast enough. "Hey, buddy. What are you doing under there?" His dad crouches next to him.
"Playing." Zack lies.
"What are you playing?"
"I'm pretending to be hiding from a bad guy."
"You want me to play?"
"No thank you." He is too big to play those games anyway, really. But he doesn't care about that. He wants to play with his dad. He misses playing with his dad. He misses when the danger was imaginary, when the danger game with his dad roaring and pinning him down and tickling him.
Now the danger is real. Now the mage hunters that he pretended to be when he was little, brandishing his wooden toy sword and rescuing his stuffed animals, are as dangerous to him as mages are. Now the mage hunters that pat him on the head and call him 'kiddie' would, if they knew the truth about him, put him on a stake and burn him to death. And they're the good guys, the heroes. He's the villain of this new game. He’s the monster of his childhood.
He takes a deep breath, and winces. Everything hurts. His bruises throb. His burns pulse, each flair of pain trying to force him to the floor. His body aches.
"You ok, buddy?" Of course his dad noticed.
"I fell yesterday and bruised my side." He lies. He is good at that. He knows that he has to, that he can't tell anyone about what his teachers do, but he still feels guilty. It's just more evidence that he is bad. Bad kids lie. Wicked kids lie.
"Aw. Can I see?" His dad reaches for his shirt. Zack panics.
"No!" He pulls away. Pain rushes through him and he whimpers, clenching his hands tightly. Tears spring to his eyes.
"Zack?" His dad sounds worried. Zack hates himself. He is such a terrible son.
"Sorry, sorry." He mumbles, pushing down the pain. "It really hurts. Don't want you to touch it."
"I won't, promise." His dad says. "Can I see it?"
Zack shakes his head, silently begging his dad not to press.
"Ok." His dad says. Zack exhales, the relief not quite drowning out the pain. "Supper is in ten minutes. Or do you want it up here?"
"I'll come down." Zack says. His dad ruffles his hair before he leaves, making his stomach squirm with guilt. He knows that he should avoid affection, gentle touch, loving touch. But he can't seem to avoid it from his parents. Despite his wickedness, they love him. He tears up. He loves them so much. He's so lucky to have them. He just wishes that he could be a better son for them.
He's glad that his dad didn't see. He is careful to always wear covering clothing, to never let anyone see any of it. His back is the worst of it. Always patchworked with bruises, a rainbow of dark reds, browns, greens and yellows. Worse still are the burns. Lines and lines of them, from an iron poker laid on his bare skin. Or from being hit with it, to make a bruise at the same time. It has happened often enough that the lines overlap, but they are so clear. So visible.
But his body has lessons scattered all over. They favour his back for punishments, but occasionally they do something else. Burns and bruises lurk on his stomach, his chest, his arms and legs. They are careful to avoid his face, because he can't hide that. But he has to wear long sleeves, and never wear shorts. The bruises fade, but the scars never will.
He staggers up, wincing. He slowly begins making his way downstairs, holding onto the wall for support.
"Are you ok?" Logan's little voice pipes up from behind.
"I fell and bruised my side." Zack recites. Pick one excuse and stick to it. He used to be terrible at lying to his family, but he has picked up tricks. "I'm ok, Lion.”
"Hug!" Logan starts running at him.
"No!" Zack exclaims. Logan freezes, looking up at him with wide eyes. Zack curses himself. It's not Logan's fault. He doesn't want to upset his baby brother. Why is he such a terrible brother? "Sorry, little Lion. I'm sore, so hugs would make me sorer. How about an air hug?" He suggests. Those were Jamie's idea. Jamie is such a loving, needy, huggy little kid. Zack is glad that he can comfort his brother without touching him. Without corrupting him. Zack doesn’t deserve it, but his little brothers do.
“No!” Logan stomps his foot, before pushing past. When he shoves Zack, pain flairs through him. He bites back a whimper, leaning against the wall. His legs shake, and tears burn in his eyes. But he can’t let Logan know that.
He stays there for a while, until he is able to mould his face into calmness. Then he starts heading downstairs, slowly and carefully.
He is unsteady on his feet as he hobbles into the main room. His mom ruffles his hair. “Are you ok, sweetheart?” He starts to lean into the touch, then feels guilty and leans away. “Your dad said that you had a nasty fall?”
“It’s sore, but I’m ok.” Zack promises. He wobbles as he moves to his chair, but he keeps going. He can’t let the pain show on his face.
He sits down. His back rubs against the chair, and he winces. But he stays put, enduring it. He’ll be ok. He’ll be ok.
A bowl of stew is placed in front of him. He doesn’t feel hungry, but he forces down every drop. His parents sacrifice so much for him. It won’t be in vain.
He glances around the table. Logan, glowering at his stew. Jamie, picking at his food while looking nervously around. His parents, once again not eating, studying him. He looks back at his stew.
Do his parents know? They always ask about it, always ask if he is alright and what happens during his lessons. Why would they do that if they know?
But how could they not know?
Maybe it’s part of the lesson. If he whines about his punishments, his parents can tell his teachers, and he will be punished more. That doesn’t make sense, that can’t be it. His parents love him. His parents are gentle and caring. They wouldn’t hurt him. They wouldn’t want him hurt.
But his lessons are fair punishments. Fair punishments for wickedness. If it wasn’t for them he might be captured and burned, and that would be worse. Or he might turn evil and hurt his parents, or his beloved little brothers. His parents just want to keep him safe, and make him good.
“How was your lesson today?” His mom asks.
“Fine. Helpful.” He manages a smile.
His parents must know what his teachers do. They hired them! How could they not know?