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Abuse- A Personal Narrative

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  • Abuse- A Personal Narrative



    Mother

    Pain shot through my nose and rang inside my ears. No, that wasn’t right. It was more like an impact, not quite pain, yet, colliding and smashing directly into my skull. I immediately felt hot blood trickle into my mouth and down the sides of my face. I laid there, some part of me hoping that I’d drown in blood, another part of me wanting to get up, to run, to fight back.

    She’d been sober earlier.I had seen her walk past my bedroom to prepare for the day. She had shuffled in her purple house slippers, no more than a ghost in a matching bathrobe. She had scratched her head with one mahogany hand and extended the other in a hearty stretch.

    In an attempt to make her smile, I whispered a warm “Good morning”, expecting her to do the same. But instead, she glared at me and rolled her eyes. Smiles were hard to come by, but at least she acknowledged me today. I counted that as a win.

    I wanted to ask her for a ride to school, but nearly laughed at the foolish idea. I was already on thin ice, and asking her for a favor would be like stomping directly on that ice.

    Was she going to mention it or did she forget?

    It was early, 6:14 to be exact, and the sun still was not up. I could hear the sad moaning of the wind trying to ease itself into the warmth of my room, but nevertheless being rejected by the harsh, frozen window. I had never related to something more than I did at that moment.

    She emerged out from the bathroom, freshly showered and followed by trails of steam. She’d had an almost royal, elegant gait, even though I could see the goosebumps that stood in protest of the cool air. I wondered faintly if there was a part of her that wanted to make over exaggerated shivering noises and start a childish dash to her room. But, of course, her firm, determined steps made a low ‘thump thump thump’ on our hardwood floor.

    At 7, she sauntered into my room with a small, brown tube. She casually threw the makeup on my bed and murmured,

    “Concealer. For that eye.”

    I picked the makeup up and started to apply it to the sore, dark blue swelling underneath my left eye. The tube was small. Nearly sample- sized. It would definitely not cover the bruising on my arms. Long sleeve-shirts weren’t so inappropriate for the weather, but soon they would be.



    “Tout s'en va, l'eau coule et le cœur oublie …”

    -Flaubert


    Work Cited

    King, Stephen. “Different Seasons”. Viking Press, August 27, 1982.


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