A Gift in the Dark

Godmother

Godmother

Tear tracks marred the bruised face of a boy staring into the night. With clouds shrouding the moon, the only illumination came from the thin bar of light underneath his bedroom door. Jagged shards were all that remained of the bulb hanging in its fitting. Another, albeit less human, victim of one of his father's rages.

Moving from the window, he knelt on his bed and shivered, wincing at the bloom of pain that speared through him as he hugged his thin ribs. Used to the odd bitter word or occasional slap, he had learned a long time ago how to roll with a punch or move to take the sting out of a casual smack, but today he'd been caught unawares. Drink fuelled and angry, his father had stormed into the room to berate him for something broken downstairs. He knew he hadn't done it; knew it would be his fault anyway; knew he would defy his own mind telling him to take the words and stay quiet, avoid the pain.

A shout of bitter rage echoed through the house, quickly fading to the normal background roar of the television, and he flinched. Why couldn't the man support a team that won occasionally? If they lost, he would soon find himself curled into a whimpering ball, the length and severity of the beating judged by alcoholic level and blackness of mood. He turned his attention back to the window, wrapped himself in a thin blanket and sighed.

An hour later the scale of the team's defeat was plain to see, painted in black, blue and red on his skin. Breathing was an agony, blood crusting on his lips as he gasped for breath. This time something had broken and it left him shuddering with pain under his bed, the smell of mould musty in his nostrils. He needed help, but he had heard the lock turn in the door as his father left the room to console himself in liquid oblivion until the whisky bottle ran dry. It had never been this bad before, his body bore a score of bruises from his father's bony hands. Panic rose with the pain as he lay in the darkness; there was no aid, no succour and no escape. 

But as rain lashed the window and lightening cauterised the night sky something changed in the darkness. A light blossomed under the bed next to his head. Pain stabbed anew as he turned to look at the pearly glow invading his private world of suffering.

The mote of light grew. Staring open mouthed, he watched a knee-high figure dressed in white pulse into existence. Barefoot and dressed in a simple shift, her black hair and dark eyes radiated an immeasurable calm.

"Hello dear," said the diminutive woman. "Let me do something about the pain a moment." She closed her eyes briefly, appearing to concentrate. As she did, the boy relaxed as the pain subsided, his head resting on the bare floorboards.

"Thank you," he said, and then in sudden clarity he asked, "am I dying?"

"I'm afraid we haven't much time together dear. I'm your Fairy Godmother and I'm here to help in the small way I can."

"What can you do?" asked the boy. "He's too big, too strong, I can't get away, and I'm hurt. Have I been bad?" The words came out in a rush of emotion and new tears formed as the figure floated beside him.

"No, you haven't been bad. None of this is your fault. Do you see how brightly I shine? All of this is down to you. The brighter I shine, the purer your soul." She paused and answered his earlier question. "I can do a little, but it will have to be enough dear. I've made the pain stop for a short time, and I can take you away. Would you like that?"

"Yes," came the whispered reply.

A few minutes later, the bony chest in its ragged vest fell for the last time as the blood slowed, and a bruised and battered soul rose into the night.

Silvery tears rolled down the diminutive woman's cheeks as he went. He was her first. Despite his own pain and suffering he had harboured no evil, no hate; no stain.