Love Beneath the Blows

Love Beneath the Blows: When Violence is Devotio

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Short story

They tied his hands above his head after knocking him down to his knees with a heavy blow to the shins. The brothers used the tree in their backyard, tossed a rope over a branch to hoist him up, and propelled him high into the air. From our rooftop across the street, he seemed impossibly high, yet the brothers below could easily reach him.

The restavek’s body swayed side to side, high up on the almond tree, naked. His private part was exposed for all eyes willing to watch. What was in the dark was now in the light. How embarrassing for him. Was that a sign of justice? He didn't get away as he had hoped.

"I didn't do it. I'm telling the truth, please let me down!" he screams in Creole.

"Listen, little shit, you don't get to speak," the older brother, Hagan, said. I looked at my sister, and she watched Hagan move, his rage clear. But he must do what needs to be done. With their father away, Hagan is the man of the family, all man but sixteen years old. My sister is so lucky.

Marc, who was maybe thirteen, shoved the steel pipe into Hagan's hand. Hagan swung. Metal hit flesh. The boy's back arched. His scream split the air before the rod ever landed.

'Sil vous plait, padonne-m,' he sobs. 'Please forgive me.' Hagan struck again, lower, harder.

My sister's knuckles turned blue where she gripped the wall, eyes locked on Hagan. Her light skin darkened with blood. She didn't blink, not even when the screams grew shrill. 'He has to do it,' she whispered, sounding almost proud of Hagan, like she wanted to believe it was for the greater good.

I wanted to see it all, but I was too short. The wall on the roof blocked my view. I scrambled down the stairs, my oversized panties bunching around my knees. I yanked them up, my heart thumping, afraid I'd miss something. Downstairs, the adults' voices slipped through the cracks in our courtyard wall.

"The LaFleurs brothers got the restavek," my aunt whispered to the neighbor. "He tried to run, but they got him. After what he did to little Lucy..."

Her voice dropped, but the words "unimaginable" and "her own room" floated through. I didn't know what it all meant, only that it was something bad, something you couldn't take back.

I grabbed a bucket and rushed back upstairs, my hands clammy on the metal rim. I pulled myself up, just high enough to see. The sharp smell of urine and sweat hit me like a slap, mixing with the distant tang of burning tires from the street. I didn't really want to see, but I couldn't look away. Everyone was watching. The big kids were watching, so I had to be big too. My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard, longing for my sister's boldness. If Mom saw us now, what would she say? I hugged my arms to my chest, but the coldness from inside wouldn't leave. Or was that just the feeling of thrill? Excitement from justice being served.

Marc grabbed the rod, adjusted his grip, and brought it down. Once. Twice. Three times. Hagan took it back. His face was blank. He continued aiming at every part his rod could reach: belly, legs, face. I couldn't hear their words, only the restavek screaming. It drowned everything, even the gunshots from the city. We were not the only spectators; kids and adults alike were on their rooftops watching.

I tasted salt. Maybe sweat, maybe tears. I wanted to run, but my legs were stiff. Fingers dug into my arms. Screaming rang in my ear from across the street, until finally, there was nothing, just silence. Only then did distant gunshots ring out louder. I looked up to the right and saw Port-au-Prince burning beyond the walls. Smoke rose, curling in the sky. We watched, safe on our roof. Protected. Untouchable. Our brick house with its steel gate kept us safe. The restavek was not safe. The inner city folks were not safe.

Lucy hovered near her mother. She clung to her skirt with one hand, the other clutching her little doll to her chest. The blow that popped a blood vessel made Lucy's eyes go wide at the sight of red water streaming down the restavek's body. Like me, she didn't understand what was happening, but she knew why he was bleeding. Why did his blood have to run to the earth, in her backyard? She tried to pull her mother inside, but her mother stood frozen, as if held by the force of revenge.

When the cries grew softer, weaker, Lucy tucked her head into her mother's side and shut her eyes tight, rocking from foot to foot. Even after they had gone inside, I watched Lucy through the doorframe, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, her doll pressed so hard the plastic bent. No one reacted the same way. None of us could forget, even if we tried.

"Oh bon Dieux, they killed him," my sister breathed. She rushed out of our fortress, down the stairs, through the backyard, into the house, out the front door, and our restavek unlocked the gate for her. She hurried across the street, banging on Hagan's door. My sister swept into the LaFleurs' front door, chin high, demanding to see Hagan. Marc let her through, and now we can see her standing in front of the bloody body. Hagan rushed over and held her, trying to shield her from the corpse hanging on his sweet almond tree. He didn't want her to see his monstrous work. It was too bloody for her pretty eyes. He let her go, kissed her on the lips, and motioned for her to leave through the side gate. Reluctantly, she backed out the door. My sister wasn't afraid; she was curious, not sad. She was only sad when Hagan left at the end of every summer for the land of opportunity and freedom. She would be heartbroken again when he left.

The restavek is dead. Hagan and Marc used a hose to wash themselves; they must have gotten blood on them during the massacre. The restavek didn't stand a chance. No hope. No one will miss him either. He wasn't our friend; he was just the help. We would have been his friends if we had been allowed. His parents, if he even had any, would never know his fate, since he was sold to the LaFleurs as a domestic worker in exchange for a place to sleep and food to eat. But that life was cut short. He had one job: to stay alive long enough to become a man. But no, he ended up being killed by two teenagers in front of their mother.

When my sister got back home, we gathered downstairs to hear her report on the corpse.

"He's not dead. Yet," she said. She'd swear she wasn't scared, only curious. "It doesn't matter, they're going to let him die slowly," she said. But I saw the way her shoulders shook when no one looked her way.

"He had it coming." My uncle said.

"Hagan is mad. The restavek had it coming," my sister reported.

Hagan and Marc were boys pretending to be men, and I admired my sister's admiration for Hagan. She was fortunate, which is why I could see why Hagan was so in love with her. She was tall, with beautiful light skin and good hair. I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. He would do the same for her. He would kill for her, too. Is that what boyfriends and brothers do for the people they love?

That night, when the brothers came to hang out on our porch and recount their hunt. My uncle said, "You boys did good today. You protected your family. Your father would be proud." There were imported sugar sodas and candy to unwind from the tumultuous day. Our restavek let Lucy in through our gates after she had dinner, showered, and changed; she wanted to play with me. As soon as I saw Lucy's face, all I wanted was to play with her and the new dolls my mom had shipped in a large wine barrel with used clothes from the Turks and Caicos Islands. I set aside my crush on Hagan and my jealousy of my sister and joined Lucy with our new dolls in the corner of our plastic-covered living room while the big kids bathed in their glory on the porch. Lucy and I were seven and eight years old, and playing together always made things better.

But the restavek hung motionless on the tree in the backyard. The brothers left his body hanging from the tree all day, until nightfall. That was the last time we saw him.

That night, after the shouting faded, I pressed my doll close to my chest. I couldn't see the tree from our bedroom window, but I could still see him behind my eyes, naked and bloody. I lay awake listening to the echo of screams and gunshots in my mind. Behind the horror of the young corpse, I knew that when I grew tall as my sister, I'd have a boyfriend like Hagan.

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By LJ Louis

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