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I was only eight, maybe seven
The day we were forced to leave.
I remember the dim lit dining room
And the distorted reflection of my
Face in the tin foil around my TV dinner.
There wasn't much conversation that night.
Mother had a troubled nervousness about here,
Sliding her wedding ring up and down her
Trembling finger.
My sisters and I were ushered into
The TV room shortly after my Father came home.
We sat quietly and responded to the screaming
By turning up the volume.
The sound of Wheel of Fortune unable
To muffle the sounds of a struggle
And the abrupt smack followed by a tumble.
My sisters looked at me, but I didn't
Return the glare. An hour later my Aunt
Led us out of the house and into
Her sea green pickup.
I remember seeing a spot of blood on
The hallway carpet on my way out.
I wondered if my mother was
Going to use some club soda
to get the stain out.
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I love the innocence of this piece.
'I wondered if my mother was
Going to use some club soda
to get the stain out.'
Intense stuff here, brilliant work.
heart wrenching how the children were kind of used to the abuse that was in the home. The last line summed that up. The plain language made the sadness plain to see...sometimes we complicate things by using big complicated words...some things just need to be plainly said. This was raw and edgey. I enjoyed it, nice write!
told with the honesty of a child. I think you may like Micro-fiction edited by Jerome Stern. It is brilliant and your work reminded me of the many pieces from that book.
