Beads

He could hear every bead of rain.
He could hear each bead as it trickled down the georgian window outside.
He could hear them even through the white noise inside of his pillow.
The room was duck egg blue and there was fur in the corner of each edge of the ceiling from years and years of beads and poor insulation he thought.
The house was old.
Old, cold and dark.
Dismal in fact.
There were curtains in the room that looked as if they had been burnt in the fire of 'les enfants' by Tanning. They could only be described as drab and dirty.
There was a rusty spoon by the door jam that acted as a door stopper.
There was a pair of scissors beside the shadeless lamp at his bedside. He had intended on cutting his toe nails but no one came to help him do it so he just left it there.
There was a free standing wardrobe that had a facade of peeling formica and gold fiigree entwined rope along the edges.
Hanging on a nail where once was a knob, was a torn and weathered strap of leather belt.
They only used this if he mentioned 'that' word.
So he always tried his best not to.
But sometimes they would make him say it just so that they could use that strap.
The place was quiet.
Quieter than usual, so he thought that they must be gone out for supplies.
It was Friday and he knew what that meant.
He knew what was going to happen, he just didnt know how - almost as if he was trapped in the Harris Burdick saga.
He felt a burning in his groin that was too much to bear, a longing, an aching throb that he was afraid of.
The throbbing got worse and it stiffened curling up to meet the inside of the duvet.
It wanted to be acknowledged and he knew he couldn't ignore it.
He knew what this meant and he couldnt control it anymore.
He needed to solve this once and for all.
Outside the duvet was cold and damp and leaving the bed never seemed to be an option for him.
He spent most of his days just lying there looking at the fur and the curtains and the window.
Nevertheless, he reached across to the lamp and pincered the scissors in his thumb and forefinger, bracing himself.
He hurriedly put his arm back in the bed as it was so cold out there.
The scissors wasnt a regular scissors but a pinking shears that was used for Una's sewing.
She did some tailoring for Father Murphy.
Father Murphy expected only the best and finest tailoring so he knew this should do the trick.
He reached under the duvet and held it. It winced and seemed to pull away from his grasp.
But he had a strong hold of it now, the hard and meaty mass weighing heavy in his grasp.
He reached down with the open mouth of the shears, it created a V shadow over it, looming with intent.
The shears felt cold on the base of it which only made it stronger
He opened the jaw of the shears wide so that it could have a good chew on the flesh.
"No more", he cried. "No more"
"I am cutting you off"
He knew that this would end the hurt and he could be free.
"Off"
"Off"
"Off".............
Just then the door creaked open and sent the rusty spoon spinning across the floor, making a whirring noise that sounded like bones being ground.
Una.
"Now, now, now you know what we discussed?", she grinned, picking up the whirring spoon from the floor and slapping it on her palm at a beat that mirrored her soft footsteps.
"Yes, yes but this is different, I am ready now", he cried, wide eyed and sure.
"No, No you are not", Una growled. '"you are not even nearly ready"
"Off", he squealed as he pressed down harder with the shears until blood began to run down his leg forming a warm pool on the musty bed sheet.
Una throws the spoon at the duvet and stretches to reach for the strap.
She coils it around her knuckles.
"When you are ready to stop using THAT word, I won't need to punish you anymore'", she sighed, shrugging her broad shoulders.
"Please, please help me", he pleaded
"This is for your own good", she said, determined.
The first lash came crashing down onto the duvet.
A warning shot.
He knew it woke the others when he heard them outside on the landing.
It was all a blur - were they watching him pleading with Una, did she know she had an audience.
The last thing he remembers was the pinking sheers falling to the floor with a clank.
Was there another word for "Off" he thought.
"Not on" he thought.
"Not on", he cried.
Not on.