Week 5: A bead of perspiration rolled from my temple down across my cheek. Or was it a tear? Why won't she love me is my last thought as my head hits the open bottom drawer. Dizziness overwhelmed and scared me, and I knew, this is not normal.
Week 6: Smoke filled the room like a cloudy day. No I realize with head spinning, everything is blurry. I cry out in pain... disbelief is mixed with tears, I hear mothers mocking laughter. Why did this just happen? What could be so evil to deserve such harsh consequences? Everyone in the kitchen is just standing there, no one moves to help, take a stand, comfort and protect a little girl? Condem the mother/wife for what she has just done?
Alone in confusion, hurt to the core, in the gut for the first time that can be remembered, too young to process the combination of all that is happening. It comes to me, move. Escape. It is then she realizes that there is no escape. There will never be. Never.
Slumped back toward the kitchen, alone, heading toward my bedroom and all of the stuffed animal friends who love me.
Week 7: A door slammed and someone ran down the stairs in an obvious hurry! Waking with a jolt, must have fallen asleep. What time ... just after midnight. Another party in the basement and I hate that my bedroom door is just steps from the bar and party downstairs, and the only bathroom in the house.
Too afraid to ever sleep with my door closed, these get-togethers are always a restless night for me. It is unnerving when a drunkard enters my bedroom, wobbling, stinking of smoke, trying to adjust their eyes to the darkness.
Laying quietly, eyes open only a slit in case I need to somehow protect myself, surrounded by fourteen stuffed animals, frozen waiting for them to realize they missed the room to the toilet. Why doesn't my mother and step-father realize how awful their parties are to me, a scar on the spirit of my childhood.
Orange light? Not really flashing, but I am too young to think of another word. The flikering leads me into the kitchen, something on the stove is on fire! The last thing I remember is a gutteral sound ... did it come from me?
Your stories are so well-written! I just wish they were fiction and not real stories!!!
ReplyDeleteOh, Re, you are loved, and not just by stuffed animals!
ReplyDeleteP.S. You linked correctly. I found you!
I'm with Edi...I was thinking what she said b4 I even say it.
ReplyDelete