Long nights

Travis at an age of twelve, drew out certain conclusion about the people in his life. Those that should mean the world to him. There weren't many. There was only one person. His father.

He concluded that this father of his, Muna Lute, was many things. He was rich, in his mid-forties and the director of Kit enterprise. At five foot ten which was average or tall depending on views and the location. His presence was one which fills up a room with both longing and dread. Travis have borne witness to how his presence could make one look up to him in admiration and also how it could take all the air out of a room.

Travis over the short span of his living concluded that his father behavior wise, was two things. He was a good man; every man was born good. His father, Lute was also a bastard. He didn't indulge much in alcohol or other vices that hovers around seeking easy prey, a bastard nonetheless.

A bastard that gave and gave with such intensity, that it bothered on psychopathic with murder tendencies. A martinet.

Travis couldn't remember how or when it started–the man's psychopathic urges. Urges to give and give, in the form of slapping and hitting the life out of little Travis.

Muna Lute walks through that door after work and the very good boy of Travis manifests. He strives to do right although many times it's something of an impossible feat. Travis feels rigid at all times, got the feeling of eyes closed and stinging, lungs heaving, trying to disperse smoke after being near a raging furnace. The man's presence brought this on, mostly during the night because that's when it usually comes; the beatings.

At any moment he commits a mistake of such, Travis looks up on reflex to his father's yellow orbs to see his reaction. Few times, Muna Lute lets it slide, going back to watching a movie on the wall-mounted television or sparing attention on food catalogues, looking for the perfect dinner(as they never cook). Few times, he raises his gravely voice in a warning tone, ''Don't do that again, boy.''

Often time, the man of the house, Muna Lute stalks toward Travis. Like a raging tiger with those dirt-yellowish eyes, cornering a helpless shivering prey, taking glee in seeing the fear his prey's eyes radiates.

Muna movement depends on how much Travis brash reply or mindless actions has angered the demon in him. His choice of weapon certainly anchors on that. Travis could run but its hopeless. He's never fast enough.

So Travis, depending on the actions of the night, just reflects on life. His life. In the safety of his room. Holding strong. Most times, he breaks down and the tears are already there. He is only twelve.

Travis in the meantime, also tries to eats and exercise as much. To get his weight up and defeat the monster that lurks at night. He doesn't want to stay a weak child anymore, there is no joy in being a child. Sometimes, he blames his mother, for leaving to the grave at just his second year of life. For turning his father to a raging bastard.

He should stop blaming the dead, he thinks and emits a choked sob before breaking apart.

So he eats much and does different activities. Travis also laughs a lot when in the accompany of his friends because although their friendship inconveniences, some of the physical pain ebbs away with their company.

*****

A long night is one which doesn't seem to end. On those night, sleep takes a long journey and is not in a hurry to return. The wind silently blows, its arms bearing gifts. Gifts of depressing thoughts, cringed moments which serves to intensify the mood, storms and silence.

Like being strapped to a metal chair, in a maximum security facility and all forms of torture devices that will do you a lot of good are displayed. There is no escape. No hiding spots, no place to run to anymore. So the mental torture; the mind conjures it, comes in torrents.

As you lie in bed, in the blinding darkness, different forms of tortured thoughts are fed to your conscious being, thoughts which shatters the walls of illusions. Illusion, you have relied on to keep sane.

The depression is welcomed. To fight is just waiting to lose. There is joy in accepting the situation. In the mental pain that echoes in the halls of your brain and drags you seductively to mild bone-crawling insanity.

As you scream and claw in the internal preciple that is your caged decaying mind, standing in the precipies of madness, your eyes fly wide open. You have fallen asleep.

****

The estate should be deadly quite and on this particular street, past three duplex down to the right sits a building. An exquisitely furnished three bedroom terrace duplex, which is painted a colourful yellow and sides red. Noises and shouts are being heard emanating from the living room.

At the house opposite, a woman embodied with lighter brown skin and red wavy hair shakes her head as she looks intently at her neighbour's house. Her full lips are upturned, her nose and eyes are screwed upwards causing lines of wrinkles to form on her forehead. A judgemental frown coats her face. Her peace of mind has just been trampled upon by her neighbours living in that fine piece of real estate she envied. It was not the first of many night they've had an uproar; the shouting and the screaming.

Not seeing through their custom-made silk curtains, no shadowy movement inside the house, with a sigh, she retreated slowly from her window.

Sometimes, when she wakes up early, she catches sight of her neighbour's son. Beautiful boy. But gloomy and jaw already set in hard line by the world. Eyes like deep black holes, carrying emptiness in its wake. She holds back. Won't call out to him,won't asked about his business.

None of that concerns her, she thinks. Everyone has there own problems, even the smallest of life is plagued with some problems. Asking about the elephant in their house will just all but permeates through that peace of mind she struggled to build. That piece of mind that comes with being newly divorced and gaining sole ownership of the house from the settlements.

She doesn't care. It could all turn out to be a bloody murder. She is less concerned. The affairs of others will never be her burden again.

''I don't care,'' she repeats loudly to the empty her.

''I don't care."

****

Meanwhile, at the three bedroom terrace duplex, anger and rage bare their teeth in malicious grin. The silk curtain refuse to flutter about in fear of being shredded and left to the dogs. The ceiling which is designed in a whirlpool LED ceiling light, groan and creak, suddenly feeling like those under its care were hefty.

Chest heaving, eyes wide, unblinking, bloodshot and mashed teeth. Travis looked very well like a mad man on a miniscule rampage. He stand on the house's plush rug trying to find more words to throw at him. Words to hurt him, to make his father feel his pain. This was the first time in Fifteen years. The first time, he stood up for himself and looked his father down.

The words he shouted back when his father tried to demean him for misbehaving still echoed within his head, giving rise to those little goosebumps that were winding across his arms.

''Stop, just stop!" He shouted as he sat opposite the man. Raising swiftly to his feet, he continued with a raw voice laced with as much venom he could muster as a child, ''your a bitter man who takes out his frustration on a child. I've had enough of your abuse. SO JUST LEAVE ME ALONE." Those were his words and not much but he was excited having said them. It was his heart desire for so long. Having stood up to his father; he should've learned.

A deer never pokes a sleeping tiger. A rabbit never enters a Lion's cave.

Veins dotted Muna's forehead, his eyes came alive. Balling his small hands into fists, the man launched....

Dragging his remains up the stairs into his room, little droplets of tears fell from his eyes. Travis cleaned his bruises, as best as he could. Today, his father didn't hold back. Lute came at him with fists, delivering punches at every part of his body. He gave and gave with intensity and fury, Travis could do nothing but be spread out on their plush rug, receiving the blessings.

Travis lips were busted, left eye swollen. His rips screamed in agony at every slight movement and his legs felt like it was an extra. Muna having delivered a blow that almost knocked the boy's teeth out, had shouted, ''go to your room and always remember, I am your father! You never should speak to me that way."

Travis held back the tears, some escaped and fell in droplets and then came the rain that clouded his eyes. He furiously used his back hands to wipe the tears. After washing his face using the linoleum sink propped under a mirror, he exited the bathroom.

Like the walking dead, he dragged his remains to his medium sized bed and laid on it with careful precision.

Needless to say, Travis had a long night.