“Oh my God…they found me.”
Punky peers up from his coloring book, unsure why his ma looks so troubled, so anxious because that is unlike her. Cara Kelly is usually composed and refined, but she’s been forced to live this way. A woman of her standing has no other choice.
Punky is Cara’s world. She has done everything to protect her son, but now, she fears she’s made a dire mistake, and her only child will pay for her crimes.
She didn’t think they’d find her here. She thought they were safe.
“Punky!” she exclaims, clutching onto his small arm and forcing him to stand as she bends to look him in the eye. “Listen to yer mummy. Come now, ya have to hide.”
“Why, Ma? What’s tha matter?” Punky asks, heart in his throat as he hates seeing his mother upset. But when a loud bang sounds, his questions remain unanswered.
Cara peers around the bedroom, frantically looking for a place to hide her son, but she’s running out of time, so the wardrobe will have to do.
Cara guides Punky over to the white wardrobe, desperately opening the door. “Ya need to be quiet. Quieter than a mouse. Okay, my wee son? Promise me.”
Punky stubbornly shakes his head, tugging his small arm from her grip. “No. I wanna stay with ya. A’ll protect ya.”
He reaches for a toy knife on the white carpet, arming himself as he stands in front of her.
When frantic footsteps pound down the hallway, Cara’s blue eyes, eyes just like her son’s, fill with tears. She knows there is no running this time.
Punky is stubborn, and he always has been. She hopes he will hold onto this attribute long into his life. But she won’t be alive to see him grow into the strong, powerful man she knows he’s destined to become.
With the Kelly name, Punky’s future is already mapped out for him. He may only be five years old, but his fate was decided the day he was born. He has no other choice, which is why Cara pushes him into the wardrobe—her sacrifice will not be in vain.
“Ma!” Punky shouts, trying to fight her.
She reaches for the face paints hidden on the top shelf. “Here,” she says, looking over her shoulder at the locked bedroom door. She’s running out of time. “I want ya to be someone else. I want ya to pretend yer anywhere but here. Whatever ya see, whatever ya hear, I want ya to know it’s not real because yer not really here.”
Punky’s eyes widen, as his dad, Connor Kelly, had spanked Punky silly for painting his face, saying no son of his would be wearing makeup like some “queer.” Punky hates his father. He doesn’t understand how his mother loves a monster like him.
When deafening pounding ricochets against the door, a tear trickles down Cara’s cheek. She failed her son. All she wanted to do was save him from this life, but she condemned them both.
Punky reaches forward where his mother is crouched and wipes the tear away with his small thumb. “Don’t cry. I’ll hide. I promise. A’ll not make a sound.”
Cara holds back her sobs, nodding quickly. “Good boy. Mummy loves ya. So much. Never forget it.”
She kisses Punky’s forehead, inhaling his scent, memorizing the only good thing that came out of marrying Connor Kelly.
She gives Punky his face paints and coaxes him to hide in the corner of the wardrobe. She presses her finger over her lips, gesturing he’s to stay quiet, no matter what. He nods, and she takes one last look at her son.
Closing the wardrobe door, she presses her back against it and wipes away her tears as she locks it. No way will she cower. She will stand tall.
The bedroom door is kicked open, and Cara is confronted by three masked men. They’re wearing all black. Nothing distinguishes them, but Cara knows who they are, which is why she’ll never see a sunrise ever again.
They’re big and strong, but she walks into the middle of the room and faces them without fear. “Get out!” she sneers, folding her arms. “How dare ye come into my home? Do ya know who I am?”
The three predators enter the room, their eyes animated due to what is about to transpire.
“We know who ye’re, ya whore,” says one of the men in a thick Irish accent. “That’s why we’re here.”
Punky creeps forward on his hands and knees. He knows he promised his ma he would stay put, but he wants to know what’s going on. The slatted wardrobe doors allow him to see three men standing in front of his ma. Their balaclavas hide their faces. Their long sleeves and trousers cover their body.
When one of them reaches out and slaps his ma’s cheek, Punky cups his mouth to mute his screams. He promised his ma he would be quiet, quieter than a mouse.
“How ’bout a dance, Cara?” one of the men say, walking over to the radio to turn up the song. “C’mere to me.”
He grabs Cara, forcing her to dance with him, but she fights him, her small fists pummeling against his broad chest. The two other men laugh, relishing in Cara’s fight, because they know there is only one outcome for her.
She chose her fate when she decided to take on the Kelly name. In this war, you’re either a Kelly or you’re a Doyle, and sadly for Cara, she chose the wrong side. And now, her death will be a warning for all future Kellys.
Cara continues to fight; she won’t surrender with ease. Her dancing partner doesn’t appreciate her insolence, so to subdue her, he punches her in the face. Blood pours from Cara’s broken nose, staining the white carpet red.
The bloodshed rouses the bloodlust.
“My turn,” one of the men says, dragging a screaming Cara into his arms.
Punky knows he made a promise, but he can’t watch his ma being treated this way. He lunges for the handle, but it doesn’t budge because the door is locked.
“Ma!” he screams, banging on the door until his fists begin to ache. But his cries are muted by Frank Sinatra playing loudly over the radio. “Mummy, open the door!”
The men take it in turns, passing Cara between them, her limp body nothing but a ragdoll as her spirit begins to wither and die.
Punky can’t see straight as his vision is blurred with tears, and when Elvis Presley’s “It’s Now or Never” comes on the radio, Punky does what his ma asked—he becomes someone else. He pretends to be anywhere but here.
With trembling hands, he reaches for the white face paint and unscrews the lid. His mother’s pained shrieks have him dipping his fingers into the paint and circling his cheeks and forehead to coat his skin white.
When one of the men produces a hunting knife, intent on silencing Cara’s screams for good, Punky then swaps the white paint for the black. As his mother’s mouth gets slit from ear to ear, Punky repeats the same action with his black face paint, which is shaped as a crayon.
He runs the tip from the apple of his cheek to his mouth, where he draws lines across his lips, wishing to silence his screams, then repeats the action on the other side of his cheek. He now wears a grin as big as his ma’s. With precise strokes, he draws slashes downward along the line he just drew, emphasizing his grin as something sinister, something grotesque.
When one of the men bites down on Cara’s nose and her ear, Punky draws a messy black dot on his own nose, and with the black dye he squirts into his hand, he uses his fingers to flick paint onto his ear and down his neck so it resembles the blood splatter his ma wears.