"Doyle Martin Riley, ya little bastard . . . c'mon out here. D'ya hear me?"

The small, ten-year-old boy shivered, hiding behind his bedroom door. He watched through the crack as his mother shuffled down the hallway in her bright, yellow-print housedress.

"Ya sorry little sonafabitch . . . get th' hell out here."

He cowered close to the wall while he slipped under his bed, praying she wouldn't find him. But she would. She always did. Perspiration gathered on his upper lip. Someday he'd show her. Someday, when he was big.

She staggered into the room, knocking over a chair.

Drunk again, like always. This was when she was the meanest. Doyle whimpered, hugging his kitten close; it protested, mewing. The animal wriggled free and ran out from under the bed.

"Oh, there ya are." His mother's thick legs kicked a pile of dirty clothes to one side.

Now he was in for it.

She crossed the room, and her bloated face peered under the bed. The stench of her hot whiskey breath and sweaty body assailed him. He cringed against the wall until his shoulder cramped.

She reached under the bed, clawing at him.

A scream rose in his throat, trapped for a moment until it broke free in a tiny squeak. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him out.

"There's m'boy," she crooned, plopping down on the bed and pressing him close to her massive bosom. She pushed his face between her breasts, smothering him.

He struggled, fighting for air.

"Wanna li'l honey?" she blubbered as she fondled him. Raising his head, she slid her wet lips over his as she held him prisoner, pinning his arms to his sides.

He couldn't stop his own hot tears from spilling over.

"Mama needs some sweet sugar. You my sugar boy, sonny?"

He stiffened and tried to twist free. Why didn't someone help him? He hated her, hated the bulging flesh pressed against him. How often had he prayed that mama would die? Bitch. She was evil. A wild cry escaped his lips, and he bit into the soft mass of her fat, tasting her warm blood.

She screamed, and clutched her breast, cursing.

Rising waves of excitement swept through him. He had hurt her, made her feel some of the pain that rode him all of the time. It made him feel powerful.

She lashed out at him then, the sting of her hand like a striking rattler against his cheek. He reeled from the blow and crumpled into a small ball on the floor. Pain rolled over him like a crashing wave. He fought the descending darkness.

* * *

Doyle opened his eyes. Dim light sifted through the small basement window, and dark nebulous shapes slithered over the cracked, concrete walls. Delicate strands of gossamer webs swayed softly among the floor joists above the basement. His teeth chattered, partly from the damp, musty air but mostly from fear. Mama always punished him in the basement. She'd haul him kicking and screaming down to that dreaded place. Only this time he didn’t remember coming.

He shivered and drew back as a large rat skittered across the floor. A thousand needles pricked beneath the skin of his numb body as he tried to move, but his hands and feet were tied. He turned his head at the sound of heavy footsteps thumping down the basement stairs.

She was coming.

Pausing.

His body tensed. He hoped she’d fall through that weak spot in the step, hoped she’d bash her head on the concrete. He shuddered and braced himself for the torture that would come—the glowing cigarette pressed into his skin that brought his screams.

"Bastard . . . hey, bastard boy . . . you, there!" His mama stood before him with a taunting smile. He heard someone crying, then realized it was himself.

She pulled a chair across the floor and placed it backward in front of him, swinging a leg over the seat to straddle it. She lit a cigarette, then rested her meaty arms on the back of the chair. With narrowed eyes, she inhaled deeply and leaned forward, blowing smoke in his face.

It burned his nostrils, and he coughed.

"What's it gonna be this time, sonny?" she jeered. Her small eyes peered through the deep wrinkles of her face. She grabbed his chin, her fingers pinching his bony flesh. His drool slid over her hand, and she shoved his face to one side.

"Don't hurt me, Ma," he screamed.

"Filthy bastard," she raged, wiping the slobber on his ragged sleeve. "You're gonna grow up filthy, just like the asshole who raped and left me pregnant with his trash." A cold glitter shined in her eyes. Her mouth twisted in her flushed face. "Good for nothing brat."

He shrunk back from her rage. Vomit rose in his throat, choking him, spilling down his chin, over his torn shirt. His head whirled.

She rose from the chair and went upstairs, returning a few minutes later with a large brown box. From inside the carton came the plaintive cry of Patches, his kitten, the stray he'd found and kept hidden. He had poured out all of his misery to that soft gray ball of fluff.

She grasped it by the scruff of its neck and lifted it out.

Time seemed suspended, unreal. His mother struck the match and held it to the kitten's fur. He detached from his body, watching the horror unfold as if in slow motion.

* * *

Doyle awoke with a start, realized he had been untied. On the floor above, his mother stumbled about on unsteady footsteps. The angry sound of her drunken voice drifted down. Soon she'd pass out. Then he'd sneak upstairs and run away from this hell he had no control over. The stench of burned flesh filled his lungs, and nausea rose in his throat. He cupped his hand over his nose as he stared down at the charred remains of Patches. Hateful, cruel bitch. She had made him watch . . . watch as she had set fire to the kitten. Tears streamed down his face. The lust for revenge clawed at his soul like a cancerous growth.

He waited until darkness gathered, and moonlight sliced through the basement window. The glistening light reminded him of a knife blade, pointed and shiny.

The abrupt sound of her snoring told him she was asleep. He gripped the railing and moved up the stairs. His chest knotted in tight cramps as he tried to avoid the spider webs clinging to the walls. He hated spiders. And rats. And shapeless forms lurking in the corners that he couldn’t quite make out. A shadowy form scurried over his arm. He cringed and brushed it aside.

Sweating now, shaking, he cowered in the silence. A growing awareness, a sense of destiny settled upon him. She had to die.

At the top he paused and cautiously opened the door, cringing as the rusty hinges scraped. With eyes shifting and mouth agape, he listened intently for some sign she had heard. Her snoring continued uninterrupted. Then, sliding his thin frame sideways through the door, he crept to the kitchen.

A gusting breeze from an open window whipped the cord of the light bulb. Eerie shadows danced from the swaying bulb. His breath caught as his gaze fell upon the shadowed corner. Instinctively he dropped to his knees, cowering. He crouched low and strained to see in the dim light.

Then her snoring came again. Something stirred inside him. A gathering power. Opening a kitchen drawer, he found what he wanted. He withdrew a butcher knife and moved silently toward the bedroom.

"Bitch," he whispered. "Yer bastard boy's a'comin." His nostrils flared, quivering, and he licked his lips. She'd never hurt him again.

Doyle paused at the half-open door and pressed the point of the knife blade against it. Silently, it swung open. He stood by the bed, staring at the mound of huddled flesh. She looked old, used, and wrinkled.

Impassively he studied the mascara-streaked cheeks, the bright red lips encased in sagging flesh, and the flat bulbous breasts spreading over her pale naked body as she sprawled across the bed.

A rumbling cramp seized his stomach, but he ignored it. An ever-so-slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. As the power grew within him, he raised the knife high.