 |
|||||
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
short writing I wrote this about ten years ago...it's meant to be a short bit that stands on it's own, and it is completely fictional. This is what you remember: An afternoon rain that patterned the frosted glass of the bathroom window with a lacework of water drops, and your hands felt frozen, gripping the edge of the sink. A man's body behind you, touching your own in a way that you weren't meant to be touched yet, and the smell of the rain mingled with the taste of the strawberry-flavored lipgloss that you had begged your mother to be allowed to wear. You didn't know the man touching you, had only been introduced to him a few hours before, but you'd seen his thin face in photographs for years, and people you trusted, even your mother, had confirmed that, yes, he was your father. You'd fought to get away, your fingers clawing at the orange carpet of his bedroom like a cat, the hem of your favorite sundress ripping in his hands, but you weren't strong enough, he got you, and you let go, accepted defeat. All your life you'd dreamed of meeting your father, for him to think you were pretty, but your grandmother hadn't even known that all of the times that she told you, be careful what you wish for, it might come true. Brown cigarette breath on your neck, you heard someone outside calling for their dog, and wanted to, no, not scream, but only to whimper, help me, help me. There was more, but that part you've only been told. Miss These?
|
|||||
