Free BiteMarks by Drew Cross Page A

remember my father's eyes, but the other pieces, the remaining topography of his facial features is gone. I remember those eyes in snapshots of time; frozen scenes from a life that has lost it's connection with the one that I have replaced it with now.
    Me aged six or seven, seeing the conspiratorial mischief that sparked in those eyes as he whirled my mother around the living room in a raucous tango. Her laughing, making a show of trying to fend him off and then allowing him a brief chaste kiss before laughing some more.
    Me aged nine or ten, watching twin fires ignite in the centers of those eyes as he grabbed my arm tightly, thrusting the can towards my mouth and splitting the soft lips with the hard rim. Her crying and gaunt with Auschwitz eyes, doing nothing to stop it; putting her fear for herself before her motherly duty to defend me. Me looking at her and hurting, drinking the bitter tasting lager but concentrating on the taste of my blood underneath it.
    Me aged twelve or thirteen, those same eyes as lifeless pools, no ripples of emotion disturbing the surface, sinking into the dark hollows of his face, a gradual slide closer and closer towards desiccation. Me fascinated by the effects of the drink, surely the consumption of so much liquid should hydrate this living corpse? The heavy sweet clouds of vapor snaking out with the cruel words that he spoke.
    Me aged fourteen, facing that sick alien rage in his eyes again as he charges at me in my room. Side-stepping, then punching hard one-two-three, taking pleasure in the loud moan as he sags to the floor.
    Then pulling a razor from its hiding place between my books, pressing the keen edge against the taut pulsing cords in his neck. A small red bead escaping, rolling down inside the collar of his dirty shirt, the fire and alcohol dying away, replaced by the sobering influence of fear. The tears coming to his eyes as he sees what he has helped to create.
    Other memories bubble under the surface too.
    A young boy, alone and sobbing once again in a small locked toilet cubicle in a small locked church school in the middle of nowhere. He can smell hospitals, bleach and watery disinfectant over the top of something festering.
    He looks around with wet red eyes grown accustomed to the gloom, taking in the dirty fingertip smudges on uneven off-white walls, the rough-edged scars on the back of the lop-sided door, childish declarations of love scratched in with drawing pins and pencil sharpener blades, edged with biro and felt-tip pen. The sentiments are strange to him, and the faint delighted shrieks of laughter from the distant playing field are not his to share.
    He takes the small blade that he has been concealing and presses it against his perfect pale skin, applying pressure until the blood begins to run; concentrating on the sensation, how it lifts him from the numb fog that passes for his usual emotional plain. His tears have stopped. Later the cutting will evolve, becoming something else entirely, but for now he sits in semi darkness embracing the pain like a lost lover. 
    Eyes, blood, pain, rage.
     
    * * *
     
    The fanged man moves with purpose now, animated by his burning need. He carries a mental freeze-frame of himself walking these same streets a long time ago holding his mother's hand. Back then it is dark but he's not afraid, since the night is alive with activity. A sweating man cruising past slowly in a purring car, a loud slurring voice singing to the sky, the rasp of an unseen match, the smell of sulphur in the air.
    She plucks the head of a bristly purple flower, crushing it slightly between her fingers and then passing it to him, smiling as he raises it to his nose. The flower is lavender, floral and medicinal all at once, the smell is soothing but he hates it, associating it with what else these nights holds in store. Her skirt matches the pretty color of the bloom and he hates it too. The material is soft and fluid; brushing her legs with a soft