(gap: 2s) The gentle haze of the 1960s seemed to wrap our little world in a golden cocoon, where the air was thick with the scent of cut grass and the distant hum of lawnmowers. Our modest brick house stood at the end of a quiet lane, its windows glinting in the late afternoon sun, and the garden was alive with the lazy drone of bees. Inside, the air was cool and still, and in the back of a dresser drawer, my mother kept a leather strap—her silent sentinel, reserved for those rare moments when she believed a lesson must be learned. The strap was a relic of another era, its surface worn smooth by time and use, and though it was seldom called upon, its presence was a constant, unspoken warning. When it was used, it delivered between six and twelve sharp reminders, always through the sturdy seat of my trousers. Even so, the sting would linger, a hot, prickling sensation that made me wriggle and vow, with all the sincerity a child could muster, to do better next time. The memory of it would follow me for days, a secret ache that colored my every movement.
(short pause) On rare occasions, when my mischief had truly tested her patience, my mother would fix me with a steely gaze and warn, “At least a dozen on the bottom, young man.” The words would hang in the air, heavy and electric, sending a shiver down my spine. Yet, in the secret corners of my mind, I wondered what such a punishment would truly feel like. Would it be unbearable? Would I cry out, or would I find some hidden well of courage? The thought both terrified and fascinated me, a forbidden curiosity that I never dared voice aloud.
(pause) The day of reckoning arrived on the last day of school, a day that shimmered with the promise of summer freedom. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and the distant laughter of children spilling out of classrooms for the last time. My mother, her face a mask of calm determination, entrusted me with three envelopes—credit card payments that must be posted without fail. “If you forget,” she said, her voice low and even, “you know what will happen.” I nodded solemnly, feeling the weight of her trust, tucked the envelopes into my knapsack, and, swept up in the excitement of the day, promptly forgot all about them. The envelopes lay buried beneath comic books and crumpled homework, their importance fading with each passing hour.
(pause) Three days later, the world had slowed to the lazy rhythm of summer. I lounged in my room, the curtains drawn against the relentless sun, clad only in my underpants. The air was thick and heavy, pressing against my skin, and the distant chirp of cicadas drifted through the open window. I lay sprawled across my bed, lost in a daydream, when suddenly, the sharp sound of my mother’s footsteps echoed up the stairs. Her voice, usually so gentle, now rang with a tone that brooked no delay, slicing through the haze of my reverie and sending a jolt of fear through my chest.
(short pause) She entered the room, her eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and disappointment, the forgotten envelopes clutched in one hand and the dreaded strap in the other. The sight of her standing in the doorway, framed by the golden light of late afternoon, made my heart leap into my throat. I scrambled to pull the covers to my chin, desperate for some small measure of protection, but there was no escape. “Out of bed, now!” she commanded, her voice sharp as a whip. “But Mother, I’m only in my underwear,” I protested, my voice trembling. She fixed me with a look that brooked no argument. “I don’t care if you’re stark naked—out!” The words rang in my ears, and I felt a flush of shame and dread creep up my neck.
(pause) After a stern lecture, her words crisp and measured, she ordered me to bend over the foot of the bed. My heart thudded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears as I shuffled forward, my bare legs prickling with anticipation and fear. She held the strap before my eyes, its leather gleaming in the slanting light. “You’re to receive a dozen for your carelessness. Would you prefer two dozen?” Her voice was calm, but beneath it I sensed a deep well of disappointment. I shook my head, trembling, my hands clutching the bedspread so tightly my knuckles turned white.
(pause) I bent over, the cool fabric of the bedspread rough beneath my fingers, my body tense and exposed. The room seemed to shrink around me, the air thick with expectation. The first smack landed with a sharp crack, a line of fire blossoming across my skin. I gasped, the pain far more intense than I had imagined, a searing heat that radiated outward in waves. The second followed, then the third, each one stinging more than the last, the sound echoing off the walls. By the sixth, my eyes prickled with tears, but I gritted my teeth, determined not to cry out, not to give in to the pain. My mind raced with memories of every small mistake, every forgotten chore, each one now paid for in burning stripes.
(pause) The seventh, eighth, and ninth smacks came in quick succession, each one a lesson in itself, each one driving home the seriousness of my carelessness. By the tenth, my resolve wavered, and a single tear slipped down my cheek, hot and silent. The eleventh and twelfth were the hardest of all, leaving my skin hot and throbbing, my pride wounded but my lesson learned. The room was silent except for my ragged breathing and the distant call of a mourning dove outside the window.
(pause) When it was over, my mother put the strap away with slow, deliberate movements, her anger spent. She sat beside me on the edge of the bed, her hand resting gently on my shoulder. “You must always do as you are told.”
