(gap: 2s) As I trudged through the rest of my school day, the hard wooden chairs beneath me felt even more unforgiving than usual. My skin prickled with a feverish anxiety, and I could barely focus on the lessons. My mind was a storm of worry, replaying the morning’s events and the inevitable consequences that awaited me at home. I played the ‘how long will I be grounded for’ game in my head, the numbers growing longer and more dreadful with each passing hour. It’s a wonder I didn’t get in trouble again that day, so lost was I in my own thoughts, barely hearing the teacher’s voice above the pounding of my heart.
(short pause) My thoughts kept drifting back to a rule that had been etched into my childhood: if you got in trouble at school, you could expect a spanking at home. That rule had loomed over my early years like a shadow, but I’d convinced myself it no longer applied. I was older now, surely past the age for such punishments. That was for when I was little, I told myself, not for now. I clung to that hope, even as a cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach.
(pause) When the final bell rang, its shrill sound echoing through the corridors, I felt a wave of relief and dread in equal measure. I shuffled out of the building, my schoolbag heavy on my shoulder, and exchanged a nervous glance with Caroline. We wished each other luck, our voices barely above a whisper, both of us knowing what likely awaited us at home. The walk back to my flat felt endless, each step weighed down by the anticipation of what was to come.
(pause) When I finally reached our front door, my heart thudded so loudly I was sure my mother could hear it from inside. I opened the door to find her sitting at the kitchen table, her hands folded tightly, her eyes fixed on the entrance as if she’d been waiting for me all afternoon. There was none of Mrs Jamison’s icy composure in her expression—my mother’s face was alive with anger, her cheeks flushed, her jaw set. The air in the room felt thick, charged with tension.
(short pause) “Sit yourself down and do your homework right this second, young lady – then we are going to talk.” Her voice was sharp, each word clipped and precise, leaving no room for argument.
(pause) That didn’t sound good. I sat down at the table, my hands trembling as I pulled out my books. I thought maybe she was giving herself time to calm down, but the silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the scratch of my pencil and the ticking of the clock on the wall. As I worked through my assignments, I felt myself settle a little, the familiar routine of homework a small comfort. I didn’t forget I was in trouble—how could I?—but I managed to push the thought aside for a while, focusing on the numbers and words in front of me.
(pause) When I finished, my mother appeared at my side almost instantly, her presence sudden and commanding. “Go to my bedroom, right now.” The words hung in the air, strange and ominous. I’d never been sent to her room before. My legs felt weak as I climbed the stairs, the old boards creaking beneath my feet. The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the fading afternoon light. My mother followed, her voice rising as we entered. “What were you thinking – if you were even thinking? School is not a spot to act up, young lady.”
(pause) I don’t remember her mentioning the note-passing or the profanity, not even once. It was as if those details didn’t matter. What mattered was that I’d been sent to the principal, that I’d been paddled. In her eyes, the real crime was simply getting in trouble at school—a basic, unspoken rule I’d broken. I’d thought she might calm down, but I was wrong. She was angrier than I’d ever seen her, her voice trembling with emotion, her hands shaking as she spoke.
(short pause) “Don’t move another muscle, Samantha Lynn,” she ordered, her tone brooking no argument.
(pause) She crossed the room and opened a dresser drawer, her movements deliberate. From inside, she pulled out a wooden hairbrush I’d never seen before—its surface smooth and gleaming, heavy in her hand. I should have known what was coming, but my mind refused to accept it. I stood frozen, my breath caught in my throat.
(pause) “What’s that for Mother?” “What do you think, that’s it to fix your hair? Come here.” And so for the first time in two years, , I found myself across my mother’s lap.
Then the brush began to come down, and I began to scream. For the first time in my life, I got a true bottom tanning. The brush continued to talk well past the point that I myself could even verbalise. My Mother was spanking me well past the point of crying; she was going for hysterical. She was trying to make sure I never sat comfortably again, or so it seemed at the time.
Finally, after what felt like hours, she pushed me off her lap“You are not too old for a spanking, Samantha, and I hope you remember that – because this can be done again, and worse.”
I finally got myself together enough to leave her room and go to mine. I fell asleep still crying.
Over the next two or three years, Mother threatened me with the brush on several occasions (often using the euphemism ‘do we need to go fix your hair?’). Just one more time, she proved true to her word: that I was not too old to be spanked; and that it could indeed be done again, and worse.
