Out of my head, into my journal.

It's the  damp scent of dirt after a rainy afternoon. The smell makes him sick. Nauseous.

He can smell it on his father's skin, that sickening smell. 

Hush.

No noise from him.

A zip. Dirt odour.

Bed slants. Eyes tight shut.

Rough farmer hands on him. Over his pyjamas. Under his pyjamas.

The boy's father leans closer to him to check if he's sleeping. The boy's eyes are closed.

He can smell the dirt and he can smell the alcohol. 

Father. Man. Boy. Son.

The boy whimpers at entry, but says nothing. Be still. 

The father groans. Shakes. Rises. Leaves.

He may be gone, but the smell of dirt is not. Never will be.

He can smell fear. His own.