It was dark, but the blaze of the bonfire lit the world around us. I was curled in a ball with my knees hugged tightly to my chest. I sat there watching my father pace back and forth in front of me. Shadow and light, shadow and light flashed across his manic-like face. He was talking again in that language I did not understand, in that voice that was not his. He was having an argument with someone inside his head. Seeing Barron in this state always seemed to frighten me more than my impending dooms.
Then, as it often did, his language changed into something I could recognize. "Are you certain? Fire will drive them out of her?" he asked, stopping so suddenly that I gasped. His face looked crazed, yet saintly hopeful. For a moment, just one moment, I actually believed no harm would come to me this night.
I held my breath, my own hopefulness growing as I waited to hear what he would say next. Then he turned to face me. His wild eyes flickered in the light of the fire. I saw an explosion of love and adoration cross the expression on his face. "Lay on your stomach, child," he commanded.
I knew to obey, and to obey promptly, so I lay on the ground on my stomach, my heart pounding into the earth beneath me. One of Barron's boots stepped over me. He stood directly on top of me now. In my peripheral vision I could see the stick he was holding in his hand. I could see the fire burning at its end. I felt Barron's knuckles graze the skin on my back as he hiked my shirt up over my shoulder blades. He was talking again in that awful voice, arguing incessantly.
I squeezed my eyes shut tight. All hope that no harm would come to me had vanished. The fiery stick moved out of my visual periphery, and a scalding heat touched my back. I could only scream out in pain as my flesh melted, and a stench permeated the air.
****