as I stand here, trying to clean myself in this rundown log cabin, but I really miss my bath products.
Thinking about my absentee bath products is a dangerous road. Before I know it, I'm thinking about my bedspread and my pillows. Neither were particularly sentimental or expensive, but they were mine. I knew exactly where the lumps had formed in my pillows and how many blankets to use in the winter when snow would fall outside my bedroom window. My father's house was one of the nicest on the block, but it was also old and drafty in the cold winter months.
Tears well in my eyes, and I'm unable to stop them from falling down my cheeks, only to be washed away by the spray of the water. Once the first tear has fallen, I'm a goner. The rest hurry to catch up. They seem to fall faster the more I think of everything I'll never have again. My mother's nightgown—the one she died in—is gone. And that thought is my undoing. I let out an agonized scream at the top of my lungs. Placing my hands on the plastic walls of the enclosure, I slap at the plastic in a half-hearted attempt at releasing some frustration. That nightgown was the only thing that ever made me feel connected to her. She never was one to keep material things, and she was so reserved there were times I felt like I never really knew who she was. But once she passed and I dragged myself into that nightgown, it felt like a missing piece had been put into place. I could smell her, and see her in a way.
Every time I wore that thing I remembered her laugh and her smile. I remembered every bruised knee she bandaged up and how she so perfectly fit herself into my father's side. She loved that man with everything she was , and even though I often wondered why, I respected it. I think one of the only reasons I'll miss my father is because my mother loved him. And if she loved him, there must be something in there worth loving and missing.
The bathroom door flies open and , before I can react, Ryan's flung the shower curtain back and he has a gun pointed at the wall beside my head. His eyes are everywhere but on me. He's not even meeting my eyes. Through the tears and sorrow, I can feel a breakdown creeping up on me. He only has the curtain open for a moment before he's closed it again.
"Why were you screaming?"
I have no real response I can bring myself to give him. Telling him about the soap and shampoo just makes me sound like a spoiled brat who's found her circumstances to be beneath her. Trying to express the loss of the life I once had to a guy who's been wearing the same clothes for days now seems fruitless. So I say nothing. I stand beneath the cooling spray.
God took my mother from me. My father took my brother from me. Officer Davis took my father and uncle away. Ruby took Aunt Gloria away, and her crew of bikers have taken my privacy away. My grief is the only thing I have left that is solely mine , and I'll be damned if I have to lose that, too.
"Fine. You don't have to talk," he says. "But get this, you scream, I'm gonna have a . 38 out and ready to shoot. Unless you want any accidents, keep quiet."
The pain in my chest has morphed into frustration , and I want nothing more than to scream, but I don't dare. Ryan's voice is already teetering on the edge of angry. I try to remind myself that he's in here, trying to protect me. He could have ignored my screams, not knowing what was going on. He could have taken the opportunity to eye my naked form. He could have done a lot of things that he didn't.
"Thank you," I whisper as loudly as I can bring myself to, but he's already gone. The last thing I want to do is to be polite. I want to be the rude one for once, the one everyone else has to dance around because you never know what she’s going to do. But I don't, because despite everything I wish I was—strong, independent, brave—I'm none of those things. I'm barely sassy. Mostly, I'm as my mother raised me to be—agreeable, polite, and docile. And as much as
Thinking about my absentee bath products is a dangerous road. Before I know it, I'm thinking about my bedspread and my pillows. Neither were particularly sentimental or expensive, but they were mine. I knew exactly where the lumps had formed in my pillows and how many blankets to use in the winter when snow would fall outside my bedroom window. My father's house was one of the nicest on the block, but it was also old and drafty in the cold winter months.
Tears well in my eyes, and I'm unable to stop them from falling down my cheeks, only to be washed away by the spray of the water. Once the first tear has fallen, I'm a goner. The rest hurry to catch up. They seem to fall faster the more I think of everything I'll never have again. My mother's nightgown—the one she died in—is gone. And that thought is my undoing. I let out an agonized scream at the top of my lungs. Placing my hands on the plastic walls of the enclosure, I slap at the plastic in a half-hearted attempt at releasing some frustration. That nightgown was the only thing that ever made me feel connected to her. She never was one to keep material things, and she was so reserved there were times I felt like I never really knew who she was. But once she passed and I dragged myself into that nightgown, it felt like a missing piece had been put into place. I could smell her, and see her in a way.
Every time I wore that thing I remembered her laugh and her smile. I remembered every bruised knee she bandaged up and how she so perfectly fit herself into my father's side. She loved that man with everything she was , and even though I often wondered why, I respected it. I think one of the only reasons I'll miss my father is because my mother loved him. And if she loved him, there must be something in there worth loving and missing.
The bathroom door flies open and , before I can react, Ryan's flung the shower curtain back and he has a gun pointed at the wall beside my head. His eyes are everywhere but on me. He's not even meeting my eyes. Through the tears and sorrow, I can feel a breakdown creeping up on me. He only has the curtain open for a moment before he's closed it again.
"Why were you screaming?"
I have no real response I can bring myself to give him. Telling him about the soap and shampoo just makes me sound like a spoiled brat who's found her circumstances to be beneath her. Trying to express the loss of the life I once had to a guy who's been wearing the same clothes for days now seems fruitless. So I say nothing. I stand beneath the cooling spray.
God took my mother from me. My father took my brother from me. Officer Davis took my father and uncle away. Ruby took Aunt Gloria away, and her crew of bikers have taken my privacy away. My grief is the only thing I have left that is solely mine , and I'll be damned if I have to lose that, too.
"Fine. You don't have to talk," he says. "But get this, you scream, I'm gonna have a . 38 out and ready to shoot. Unless you want any accidents, keep quiet."
The pain in my chest has morphed into frustration , and I want nothing more than to scream, but I don't dare. Ryan's voice is already teetering on the edge of angry. I try to remind myself that he's in here, trying to protect me. He could have ignored my screams, not knowing what was going on. He could have taken the opportunity to eye my naked form. He could have done a lot of things that he didn't.
"Thank you," I whisper as loudly as I can bring myself to, but he's already gone. The last thing I want to do is to be polite. I want to be the rude one for once, the one everyone else has to dance around because you never know what she’s going to do. But I don't, because despite everything I wish I was—strong, independent, brave—I'm none of those things. I'm barely sassy. Mostly, I'm as my mother raised me to be—agreeable, polite, and docile. And as much as
Similar Books
