Bruise, Trash, Write

18 Feb

“In the bathtub. The bruises hurt a little, tiny cuts stinging under warm water. My mother, drying me off. Touches a deep purple-blue mark. Why do you make me do this?

I have no answer.


The teacher asked questions. I told the truth. My mother was called. She was closeted with the teacher and the head for a long time while I kicked my heels in the hall, my face still tender and inflamed, smelling chalk and sweat and metal. The halls were empty.

My mother came out, she walked too fast to the car, I trotted to keep up. Inside the car I began to ask her what would happen now, but she slapped me again, hard, on the same side of my face.

If you make trouble like that again, he’ll lose his job. We will all starve. Your sisters will starve.

I stifled the sobs on the silent drive home.

He didn’t hit me in the face again. For a while.”

This is just overwhelmingly good writing. Read the rest at the link.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: