He raises the glass bottle like he did the day mum died and every day after that. I tell myself that it’s okay. It’s okay if he doesn’t crack the bottle against the wall like he did that day. I will only die if he drives it into my heart like he did that day. I will be okay if I don’t soak in blood like mum did that day. I can still remember my heart exploding in my chest like the stabbing of the shards that tore apart her heart echoing a thousand times. But dad just leant against the kitchen counter watching me as I shook mum’s limp shoulders. Watching as my hands, my clothes, the soles of my feet became soaked with her red, red blood, He watched as I wiped at my tears with blood stained fingers so it looked as if I were crying blood. He smiled as faint crooked smile as he saw me grimace at the taste of tears made even more salty by blood.
The woosh that followed the path of the bottle through the air drew me from my thoughts. The unbroken bottom of the bottle landed just to the left of the barely healed wounds from yesterday when I wasn’t so lucky. Pain does not follow as the bottle hits my arm, so hard I hear a crack. His eyes crazed, filled with the fury that always explodes out of nowhere. A volcanic explosion that destroys everything in its path. And that was me.
To be continued…
H.C.A Agate 