don’t want to move from my curled fetal position, though I can feel a cold puddle soaking into the hem of my jacket. I close my eyes and breath heavily.
The ever-present clouds lurking behind my eyes – that dull, persistent unthinking fog – contort and pull up a random memory:
I’m seven years old, sitting on the floor of my kitchen, cramming myself into a dusty, hidden corner. There’s a plate on my lap – a few minutes ago, it was heavy with freshly made brownies my mother had made for her book club. Now, though, the plate holds nothing but crumbs and the corners of my mouth are streaked with chocolate.
I’m content, my stomach feels warm and full, and I am licking the last remnants of a melted chocolate chip from between my fingers when a series of sharp clicks – like chipping ice – cascades down the hallway.
She is coming towards me.
I panic, try to stuff the plate behind me, but there is nowhere to go and nothing to do. My stomach, seconds ago so pleased, is now churning with bile and fear. I know what is coming.
Mother whirls into view. She is almost ready to leave the house, judging by the pearl necklace that bounces on her veined neck. A svelte black dress chases down her wire-thin frame, following closely along her bony hips. The legs jutting out from beneath the hem are skin, bones, and little else. She looks lovely.
I note all this subconsciously, though, because I can’t look away from her eyes. They are the eyes of a jungle cat and at this moment they are writhing with a torrent of bloody anger that makes me want to vomit.
So, submitting to the urge, that is exactly what I do. I lean forward, legs still crossed, and spew half-eaten brownies in Mother’s direction. The thick, half-digested tidal wave roils out across the kitchen floor, streaming in rivulets along the tiled grooves towards her night-black heels.
She steps backwards away from it. A note of disgust creeps behind the rage in her eyes.
“You animal,” she growls. “You disgusting, vile, despicable animal.”
I try to stutter out an excuse – You didn’t let me eat dinner! – but the lingering nausea and my abject fear of Mother seize the words in my throat.
“Stand up. Stand up this instant,” she commands. I do as she says. “Step forward!”
I tiptoe around the puddles of puke until I am standing in front of her. My chin is wobbling; I realize that I am crying. “Look at me,” she whispers, and I can hear the venomous tension stretched like wires between every word.
I raise my head slowly, my eyes tracking up her body, until they meet hers.
She slaps me. I collapse to my knees as my tears ratchet up to a wailing peak. Pain is bursting in my face and lip. All I wanted was a bite to eat.
The blast of a car horn snaps me back to reality. I open my eyes and look up to see the grill of a taxi, breathing its exhaust in my face. A bald man with a thick accent leans out of the driver’s side window and yells at me.
“What the fuck are you doin’, lyin’ in the middle of the street like that? Get out of the way, you fat bitch!” He squeals around me, shoving a middle finger in my direction as he goes by.
I struggle to my feet, wincing at the pain that jags in my arm with every step. Pedestrians on the sidewalk look; no one stops to help. Limping, I cross the street, mount the sidewalk, and reach my building.
Something is seriously damaged; I can’t even lift my arm to grab the door handle. An elderly man coming out from the lobby holds it open for me. All I can offer him is a weary grimace, without even the energy to look him in the eyes.
Up in my dingy apartment, I have to bite my lip to stop from screaming as I pull my shirt off of my battered body. I can already see bruises - thick, mottled, purple, ugly bruises –spreading across my chest and hip where the brunt of my weight landed.
I drop the
The ever-present clouds lurking behind my eyes – that dull, persistent unthinking fog – contort and pull up a random memory:
I’m seven years old, sitting on the floor of my kitchen, cramming myself into a dusty, hidden corner. There’s a plate on my lap – a few minutes ago, it was heavy with freshly made brownies my mother had made for her book club. Now, though, the plate holds nothing but crumbs and the corners of my mouth are streaked with chocolate.
I’m content, my stomach feels warm and full, and I am licking the last remnants of a melted chocolate chip from between my fingers when a series of sharp clicks – like chipping ice – cascades down the hallway.
She is coming towards me.
I panic, try to stuff the plate behind me, but there is nowhere to go and nothing to do. My stomach, seconds ago so pleased, is now churning with bile and fear. I know what is coming.
Mother whirls into view. She is almost ready to leave the house, judging by the pearl necklace that bounces on her veined neck. A svelte black dress chases down her wire-thin frame, following closely along her bony hips. The legs jutting out from beneath the hem are skin, bones, and little else. She looks lovely.
I note all this subconsciously, though, because I can’t look away from her eyes. They are the eyes of a jungle cat and at this moment they are writhing with a torrent of bloody anger that makes me want to vomit.
So, submitting to the urge, that is exactly what I do. I lean forward, legs still crossed, and spew half-eaten brownies in Mother’s direction. The thick, half-digested tidal wave roils out across the kitchen floor, streaming in rivulets along the tiled grooves towards her night-black heels.
She steps backwards away from it. A note of disgust creeps behind the rage in her eyes.
“You animal,” she growls. “You disgusting, vile, despicable animal.”
I try to stutter out an excuse – You didn’t let me eat dinner! – but the lingering nausea and my abject fear of Mother seize the words in my throat.
“Stand up. Stand up this instant,” she commands. I do as she says. “Step forward!”
I tiptoe around the puddles of puke until I am standing in front of her. My chin is wobbling; I realize that I am crying. “Look at me,” she whispers, and I can hear the venomous tension stretched like wires between every word.
I raise my head slowly, my eyes tracking up her body, until they meet hers.
She slaps me. I collapse to my knees as my tears ratchet up to a wailing peak. Pain is bursting in my face and lip. All I wanted was a bite to eat.
The blast of a car horn snaps me back to reality. I open my eyes and look up to see the grill of a taxi, breathing its exhaust in my face. A bald man with a thick accent leans out of the driver’s side window and yells at me.
“What the fuck are you doin’, lyin’ in the middle of the street like that? Get out of the way, you fat bitch!” He squeals around me, shoving a middle finger in my direction as he goes by.
I struggle to my feet, wincing at the pain that jags in my arm with every step. Pedestrians on the sidewalk look; no one stops to help. Limping, I cross the street, mount the sidewalk, and reach my building.
Something is seriously damaged; I can’t even lift my arm to grab the door handle. An elderly man coming out from the lobby holds it open for me. All I can offer him is a weary grimace, without even the energy to look him in the eyes.
Up in my dingy apartment, I have to bite my lip to stop from screaming as I pull my shirt off of my battered body. I can already see bruises - thick, mottled, purple, ugly bruises –spreading across my chest and hip where the brunt of my weight landed.
I drop the
Similar Books
The Birds of the Air
Alice Thomas Ellis
The Rebels' Assault
David Grimstone
The Golden Fleece
Brian Stableford
Jace
T.A. Grey
Mating Rights
Jaide Fox
The New Champion
Jody Feldman
Pretty Is
Maggie Mitchell