Bubbles in the Grass

I thank my editors, Hal and GeorgeAnderson. As usual, Harddaysknight is my mentor and gives me critical review. Sbrooks103x also gave me a pre-post read. I love you guys.

This is just a little flash story about domestic abuse, written from a very dark place, and the price it extracts from the soul. This is the only agenda story I have ever written, and I had something important to say. If you've read it before, you need not comment or score. If you comment, I won't put up with any bullshit on this one, so don't even go there. It's dark and macabre. If you think you won't like that, you should read something else. I hope you find it disturbing. If so, I've accomplished my purpose. I am indebted to Tool for their song, "46&2."

*****

The darkness scrubs over my soul like a rasp. I sit alone, picking at old scabs. There's a deep burning in my side when I breathe; I think my ribs may be broken. The shadow hides me. It is the repressed aspect of my consciousness. There is a mirror over the dresser, but I know what shattered image I'll see there, so I never turn on a light when I am alone. I hate mirrors. A sliver of light pierces the darkness. It is Marissa.

"Mom, can I come in?"

"Yes, baby," I tell her. "Please shut the door."

Marissa was five last week. I took her to a party at one of those pizza places where they have games. He said it would be okay and He gave me 200 dollars. The party only cost ninety, and I hid the rest of the money. I told Him that I had lost the receipt. That's why my side has the burning. I'm supposed to keep the receipts for everything.

He let me buy some makeup, too. I needed to cover the fading yellow around my eye. I went to Walmart and got it, but I told Him I went to Macy's. I got twenty dollars there. I had the makeup, and He doesn't know what kinds are sold where. I've been doing this for over a year. I have almost 3000 dollars. I keep it in a dark place, taped to a floor joist under the house.

Marissa whimpers a little as she crosses the dark room. She finds me, sitting against the wall and I pull her down into my embrace. "Mom, I don't like the dark," she says.

"Shush, baby, the shadows are friendly," I tell her. "No one can find us in the dark." 'Join me, my child,' I think. 'We will dig through the corners of my old numb shadow.'

"You mean Him," she says.

"Yes, baby," I whisper. We sit together, incorporating the material of shadow into our consciousness. The shadow slithers over us like a serpent, shedding its skin as I rummage through old reflexes, looking for a clue.

"Is Mr. Thomas going to help us?" she asks.

"Yes, I think so," I tell her.

"Mom, can we go outside for a little while?" she asks.

"Yes, but only in the back yard," I tell her. She is content and pulls me to my feet.

Mr. Thomas. Peter, I remember his name. A large man, he has kind eyes. I'm hoping he'll help us. I'm still pretty. I had unbuttoned two buttons on my blouse, not far enough so that he can see the bruise, and I hoped what he saw was enough. I'd gladly trade my body for some safety. Two years is long enough. I'm afraid He'll kill me, eventually, and Marissa will be alone. With Him. I can't let that happen. He'll be home in a few hours and I have to be ready. I don't know if I'm brave enough, strong enough. I have to be, for her.

I send Peter a text. "Tonight, 7:00 at the supermarket." I wait for a reply and I'm starting to tremble at the silence. I crawl on my belly in the dark sunlight. I want to go back inside to the shadows, but Marissa is playing. I sit and watch as she makes bubbles. They fly up, away, and gradually come back to earth to pop as they touch the grass. Those are my dreams. Everything I'd hoped, a handsome man and a beautiful laughing girl, she's in white and she throws her bouquet. Other laughing girls fight over it, just bubbles, drifting down to die in the grass. I sort out what could have been from what is.

The phone in my hand buzzes and I start, surprised at the sudden motion. I look at the text. "I'll be there. I can't wait." I seize upon a word to guide me.

Peter doesn't know. I hope he'll help us. I wallow in my insecure delusions. No one knows; it's my secret shame. If anyone found out, He would be furious. He might hurt Marissa. I need to start dinner. He likes me to have dinner ready when He gets home. He will eat, then drink. Sometimes, He makes me drink with Him. He knows I hate being drunk, so it pleases Him. It's part of my shame. I'm filthy and I deserve it. It does make it easier if He decides to use me. It's become less frequent. I think I'm getting uglier. I hide in my shadow.

I call Marissa and we go inside. She goes to her room. He doesn't want her to come out until dinner is ready. I pack our things, and get the money, leaving the suitcases in the hall closet. I am making spaghetti. I put the sauce together and slice bread to make garlic bread. The water is boiling and ready for the pasta. I put the bread in the oven and set the table. He'll be home any minute.

I hear the door slam and draw a quick breath, the pain stabbing through my side. I hear His footsteps and the sound of His breathing. My shadow moves closer to meaning.

"Why isn't dinner ready, Cunt?" He asks.

I am Cunt. That's my name. I once had another, but it is never spoken. Once, I told Him I had a name. Battered and bleeding, I remembered. I am Cunt.

"I'm sorry, it will be ready in five minutes," I tell Him, hoping that He won't be any angrier. He comes close to where I am breaking the pasta. He sniffs as I tremble. Maybe He won't hurt me. I think He likes the way it smells. I'm grateful.

He stands close as I take the lid off the pot. I feel the cleansing I've endured in my shadow. Steam escapes and the water is at a rolling boil. I get two potholders. They were wedding gifts, I remember. I like them. Now is my time. I contemplate my muscle memory and feel the metamorphosis of my shadow. I grasp the handles of the pot and turning quickly, I throw more than a gallon of boiling water into his face. I choose to live, and grow, live and love, change and die. Kill, and do what my shadow dictates, I will see myself on the other side. I step through, out of the shadow.

He falls to the floor with a hoarse cry, clutching at his face, his eyes. From beside the range, I get his old baseball bat. He's told me many times about hitting the game winning home run with it in high school. He's writhing on the floor, clawing at his face, strips of skin peeling away. I pick my time and smash him in the groin with the bat. He screams, but it is cut off in midstream as I hit him again, and a third time. He is unconscious. I quickly turn out the lights. The only illumination is the flame from the burner on the stove.

I like the darkness. The shadows soothe my soul. I take his wallet and go upstairs to get Marissa. As we pass back through the house, I remember the garlic bread. It's going to burn. I don't have time to take it out of the oven. We collect our suitcases and leave the house. It's six blocks to the Super Market. I think I can make it.

Mr. Thomas will be waiting. Peter. I remember his eyes. He has kind eyes. The pain is stabbing through my side, but I'm going to make it. I think I should tell him my name. Mary. My name is Mary. I think Cunt died back there in that house. I look back and I can see smoke coming from the open door. It makes a shadow against the sky. Another bubble bursts on the grass.