motherfucking bitch.
I’ m seething and I’m shaking all over. My inability to coherently cease the shaking of my body is completely and disturbingly interfering with my cognitive abilities; I’m going to either spasm sharply or black out. I have to get my brain to kick back into thought. I briefly spasm and jerk.
And then I strip, I strip off my shirt and throw it down; I kick off my shoes and undo my jeans, peeling them back before kicking them to the side. My mother’s face is horrified, and then she turns away.
The right side of my stomach looks like a melted twisted mess. The melted flesh seeps down onto the very top of my right thigh. It’s hideous. It looks like Freddy Kruger’s face. Dirty bombs are extremely unfriendly devices. After they stitch you up, you still get septicemia from the dog shit, human waste and garbage they pack in there too. The worst of my damage is centered on the right lower corner of my abdomen. They saved almost all of my intestines and my bladder; I lost my right ovary and the usefulness of my uterus in the aftermath of infection. The skin grafts over the saved but damaged muscle mightn’t be very pretty – but it’s functional and I’ve seen worse; I really have.
“What are you doing?” My mother screams.
“Look at me.” I scream back.
“Put your clothes back on, JOHN. ” She screams for my father. He won’t come. He’s not even in the house anymore.
“Fucking look at me .” I scream at her.
She’s refusing; she’s storming out of the room and into the kitchen. I’m following her.
“FUCKING LOOK AT ME MOM .” I scream ferociously.
She grabs the wine fridge door, reefs it open and grabs the first bottle her fingers touch. I’m watching her; the ritual has walked its path. Here we are again. The only difference is I’m standing in the kitchen with my bra and panties on, and only them. I’m huffing. I wouldn’t care if she screamed and lamented the loss if she could just look at me and tell me she loved me. Could look at what I’ve become and not let it bother her anymore. It’s been years. I don’t remember the last time she looked at me with any pride.
“Are you going to look at me?” I croak.
No, she’s going to ignore me. She’s going to open the bottle she just liberated from the fridge and she’s going to drink the whole thing.
What have I become? What is it about me that means everyone has to walk away and leave me, lamenting the loss as though I’m dead. Horrified and hurt as if it were them in that blast. I haven’t been with a guy since the blast. I can’t even show myself to my Dad. This is the first time I’ve exposed myself to anyone in 12 months, since the last grafts healed.
She begins to open the bottle; a stern and frigid look across her pretty face. I can’t take it; a seething rage takes over and I grab the bottle by the neck, right out of her grasp and smash it down on the edge of the counter, shattering the glass everywhere and splashing wine in a grand cascade onto the floor and bench.
I don’t wait for the fallout; I storm out of room and up to my bedroom. I grab a dress and flip flops, throw them on and head for the beach.
***
This morning I wake up bright and early. I have a spring in my step because I’m leaving this God-awful house and going to work. Surviving Ethan’s advances are still superior to listening to my mother’s drunken raving. Last night she got mega-pissed. Tuesday night and all. She still didn’t come and tell me she loved me. I guess that means she either doesn’t, or doesn’t know how to. Either way, it’s not conducive to a blissful mother and daughter relationship.
Fairs fair though, I’m not sure I love her either. I feel too conflicted with her to know what I feel for her, because emotive responses to people these days tend to be within the realms of boredom, despising, flat or rage. With the
I’ m seething and I’m shaking all over. My inability to coherently cease the shaking of my body is completely and disturbingly interfering with my cognitive abilities; I’m going to either spasm sharply or black out. I have to get my brain to kick back into thought. I briefly spasm and jerk.
And then I strip, I strip off my shirt and throw it down; I kick off my shoes and undo my jeans, peeling them back before kicking them to the side. My mother’s face is horrified, and then she turns away.
The right side of my stomach looks like a melted twisted mess. The melted flesh seeps down onto the very top of my right thigh. It’s hideous. It looks like Freddy Kruger’s face. Dirty bombs are extremely unfriendly devices. After they stitch you up, you still get septicemia from the dog shit, human waste and garbage they pack in there too. The worst of my damage is centered on the right lower corner of my abdomen. They saved almost all of my intestines and my bladder; I lost my right ovary and the usefulness of my uterus in the aftermath of infection. The skin grafts over the saved but damaged muscle mightn’t be very pretty – but it’s functional and I’ve seen worse; I really have.
“What are you doing?” My mother screams.
“Look at me.” I scream back.
“Put your clothes back on, JOHN. ” She screams for my father. He won’t come. He’s not even in the house anymore.
“Fucking look at me .” I scream at her.
She’s refusing; she’s storming out of the room and into the kitchen. I’m following her.
“FUCKING LOOK AT ME MOM .” I scream ferociously.
She grabs the wine fridge door, reefs it open and grabs the first bottle her fingers touch. I’m watching her; the ritual has walked its path. Here we are again. The only difference is I’m standing in the kitchen with my bra and panties on, and only them. I’m huffing. I wouldn’t care if she screamed and lamented the loss if she could just look at me and tell me she loved me. Could look at what I’ve become and not let it bother her anymore. It’s been years. I don’t remember the last time she looked at me with any pride.
“Are you going to look at me?” I croak.
No, she’s going to ignore me. She’s going to open the bottle she just liberated from the fridge and she’s going to drink the whole thing.
What have I become? What is it about me that means everyone has to walk away and leave me, lamenting the loss as though I’m dead. Horrified and hurt as if it were them in that blast. I haven’t been with a guy since the blast. I can’t even show myself to my Dad. This is the first time I’ve exposed myself to anyone in 12 months, since the last grafts healed.
She begins to open the bottle; a stern and frigid look across her pretty face. I can’t take it; a seething rage takes over and I grab the bottle by the neck, right out of her grasp and smash it down on the edge of the counter, shattering the glass everywhere and splashing wine in a grand cascade onto the floor and bench.
I don’t wait for the fallout; I storm out of room and up to my bedroom. I grab a dress and flip flops, throw them on and head for the beach.
***
This morning I wake up bright and early. I have a spring in my step because I’m leaving this God-awful house and going to work. Surviving Ethan’s advances are still superior to listening to my mother’s drunken raving. Last night she got mega-pissed. Tuesday night and all. She still didn’t come and tell me she loved me. I guess that means she either doesn’t, or doesn’t know how to. Either way, it’s not conducive to a blissful mother and daughter relationship.
Fairs fair though, I’m not sure I love her either. I feel too conflicted with her to know what I feel for her, because emotive responses to people these days tend to be within the realms of boredom, despising, flat or rage. With the
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