The pain was excruciating but the humiliation was worse. My brother had told on me. I guess it took the heat off him if he could focus it on me.
I sat sobbing quietly at the table when Dad arrived home from work. I hadn't been allowed to move from the table since the beating. I knew better than to tell him why I was crying as she was hovering; listening - all powerful, totally in control. I guess he knew why I was crying.
I knew I wouldn't be allowed to sit on his knee that day, so I choked down my dinner. I don't recall what dinner was. It might have been nice.
The following day I woke up and was driven to school by my mother. Every stride up to the school gates was painful and a reminder that I was different.
I had been doing handstands the previous day with a short pleated skirt. In front of the boys. That was the mortal sin. I had done it in front of the boys. Showing off my knickers apparently. I was 8. I still remember what the items of clothing were but not what that dinner had been. I hid those clothes in my wardrobe and they were never worn again. In my innocence I thought they were at fault. They were now the reason for the beating; my clothes.