(gap: 2s) When I was a child, the threat of my mother’s paddle was a constant shadow in our home—an unspoken rule that kept us in line. She kept it tucked away in her dresser, a flat, wooden relic with the words “Fli-Back” stamped on the handle, and she wielded it with a kind of stern love that only mothers of her generation seemed to possess. I can still remember the way the air would change when she reached for it—how the room would grow tense, and my siblings and I would exchange nervous glances, silently promising ourselves to behave.
(short pause) On one golden afternoon, the kind where the sun seemed to linger just for us, my best friend Jordan came over to play. He arrived with a shoebox full of his prized toy cars, each one gleaming with the promise of adventure. We raced them across the faded blue carpet of my bedroom, our laughter echoing down the hallway. For a while, the world was just the two of us, lost in the thrill of make-believe.
But as the hours slipped by, a storm began to brew. There was one car—red, with silver stripes—that I desperately wanted to play with. Jordan, ever the proud owner, refused to let it go. The more he clung to it, the more I felt a hot, prickling frustration rise in my chest. I remember the way my hands trembled, the way my voice grew sharp. In a moment of childish fury, I snatched the car from his grip and, without thinking, hurled it out the open window.
(pause) Time seemed to slow as the car sailed through the air, spinning end over end. I watched, horrified, as it disappeared from sight. A split second later, a sharp cry rose from the garden below. My heart plummeted. I rushed to the window and saw my little sister, Kathy, clutching her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. The car had struck her—a glancing blow, but enough to send her running inside, wailing for our mother.
(short pause) Relief washed over me when I realized Kathy wasn’t seriously hurt, but that relief was quickly replaced by dread. I knew what was coming. Kathy, always the dramatic one, made sure her cries reached every corner of the house. Within moments, I heard the heavy tread of my mother’s footsteps on the stairs, each one a countdown to my doom.
The door burst open, and there she stood—my mother, her face a mask of concern and anger. She checked Kathy first, her hands gentle as she examined the bump on her head. But once she was satisfied that my sister was unharmed, her gaze shifted to me and Jordan, who were now locked in a heated argument, voices raised and faces flushed.
Jordan wasted no time. As soon as he saw my mother, he pointed an accusing finger at me, his voice trembling with righteous indignation. “Allan threw my car out the window! He hit Kathy!” In that instant, I felt the weight of judgment descend upon me. There was no trial, no chance to explain. I was guilty, and I knew what that meant.
(pause) My mother’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t need to say a word. I heard the familiar sound of her dresser drawer sliding open in the next room—the unmistakable signal that the paddle was coming. My stomach twisted into knots. I could almost feel the sting before it even happened.
She returned, paddle in hand, her presence filling the room. She scolded me in front of Jordan, her words sharp and unyielding. Each time she smacked the paddle against her palm, I flinched, the sound echoing in my ears. I felt small, exposed, and deeply ashamed—not just for what I’d done, but for being so publicly chastised in front of my friend.
(short pause) Then came the sentence. “I’ve had enough of your behavior today, Allan! Bend over right now!” Her voice was final, brooking no argument. I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off with a warning: “Do as I say, unless you want Kathy to see you being spanked as well!” The threat was enough. I swallowed my pride and bent over, my cheeks burning with humiliation.
The world seemed to shrink to the space between me and the carpet. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts. My mother’s footsteps were deliberate as she moved behind me, the floor creaking beneath her weight. I felt her firm hand press down on my lower back, pinning me in place. The paddle, cool and smooth, was pressed against the seat of my pants, measuring, threatening. My knees trembled so hard I thought I might collapse.
(pause) Then, with a sudden whoosh, the paddle was raised and brought down with a sharp, explosive crack. The sound was deafening in the small room—a flat, wooden slap that seemed to echo off the walls and rattle my bones. The pain was immediate and electric, a hot, stinging wave that radiated outward, making my whole body tense and my fists clench. I gasped, the air catching in my throat, and tried to bite back a cry.
My mother did not pause. The paddle rose and fell again, each strike landing with merciless precision. The sensation was overwhelming—each smack a fresh jolt of fire, the sting building on top of itself until my resolve began to crumble. I could hear Jordan’s sharp intake of breath behind me, could feel his eyes on my back, and the humiliation burned almost as much as the pain. My face was wet with tears before I even realized I was crying.
(short pause) The room was filled with the relentless rhythm of the paddle: the swish through the air, the crack against my skin, my own muffled sobs, and my mother’s stern, steady breathing. I lost count after the tenth strike. My legs shook, my hands gripped the edge of the bed, and my vision blurred
