The leather belt slashed across his face, bringing him to consciousness. He writhed in pain, holding and rubbing his face to salve the stinging pain.
"You idiot!", she shrieked violently, then pointing at her left hand where a wristwatch should be, she roared, "It's 4:00 in the morning and you're still sleeping."
Like a programmed robot, Lanre stood from bed without hesitation. He knew a little hesitation could cost him dearly for Aunt Clara had little or no patience. He sometimes wondered if truly she was his father's sister. His father had been nothing like at this at least for the little time he had known him before his tragic demise while he was just five years old. It was perhaps due to sorrow and much depression that made his mother also die a year later.
He had lived with his grandma afterwards for the next five years, before coming to live with Aunt Clara after grandma died. It was now three years since he had started living here. It really felt like ten years. Everyday had been a living hell. He was just fourteen but sometimes felt like he was actually fourty.
Lanre was brought back to reality as the leather belt struck again but across his bare back this time. He had been working to slowly for her. Perhaps, it had been a mistake to sleep shirtless. The mark on his back would probably last a week. Aunt Clara was good with belts and better with whips. He had nicknamed her the goddess.
"Hurry up, you demon!", she snarled.
That was his name, demon. He wondered when last she had called him Lanre. He had actually begun to wonder whether she wasn't actually right about him being a demon. She believed he had killed her brother in connivance with his mother before turning on his mother and killing her too and finally killing her own mother. If so, why wasn't she scared to die. Shouldn't she be pleasing the demon instead of tormenting him.
He turned on the taps, blocked the drains and let the water fill both basins and then turned off the tap. Turning the liquid soap containing and squeezing it, he let the right amount of soap pour into one basin before put a sponge into it. He left the other basin with clean water. One for washing one for rinsing. He picked up the dishes and began to wash. Holding his breath and supressing his disgust at the dishes he was washing which had been used disgustingly.
They were animals, the whole bunch of them in this house. He had vomited the first two times he had been made to wash their dishes but after being made to lick his own vomit from the ground on both occasions (not like he had been sucessful, he only vomites more and fainted in his vomit then woke up to clean it up) and being starved afterwards, he had learnt to suppress his irritation.
Starvation was one of Aunt Clara's favourite punishment. One which she dished on him at any given chance. She always found a reason to starve him. Perhaps she didn't want to waste her food on him.
"A piece of meat is missing from the pot. You demon, how dare you steal my meat? (A knock on his head) No food for you this morning".
"Why is the floor of the house so sandy. A pebble just injured my foot. You demon, can't you sweep well? (A slap on his cheeks) No food for you this afternoon!"
" Why is the house so stuffy. Why didn't you open the windows (a punch in the face). No food for you tonight. You little demon."
He always knew better than to argue with her. Even when she was lying against him, he would simply apologise and receive his slap, knock or whatever physical abuse she deemed fit for him. Arguing with her meant calling her a liar and well, anyone who calls her a liar must be a chinese monk because he would walk on coal.
He had thought walking on coal was a figurative expression for immense suffering until the day she had made him walk on literal coal. He had learnt to take her by her words ever since. His callused heels were a constant reminder.
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