Piddling Drivel

One for the head, one for the heart. One through an eye, the other between your ribs. I hated your threats, your raised fists and the bruises covering my body.  Night after night you came, smelling of booze.  I ached.  I bled.  I was too scared to see a doctor, ashamed of my shredded innocense.  I hated you for making me your whore. Coming home late you knocked me around and insulted me, then forced yourself into me.  I was scared and you were strong.  You assaulted me, then left me hurting and nauseated from the stench of blood, sweat and your rotten seed. When finished you rose, muttering "You should be ashamed of yourself.  You're filthy and bloody." Tonight was my breaking point.  You lay there in my bed, drunk and snoring. The color drains from your face, and the screwdrivers protruding that way make me laugh nervously. "You should be ashamed of yourself, daddy.  You're filthy and bloody." I don't love you.  I won't miss you. Another of my micro

  "How are we supposed to eat?"  She was serious, and aftwerwards I felt bad for laughing.  I'd arrived to look at their microwave, which apparently had stopped working.  I determined that there wasn't much I could do and would have to replace it.  "I can't believe this," she said, obviously seriously annoyed.  Husband came back into the kitchen and said "For what we pay you'd think the fucking appliances would work when you need them.  Now what do we do?" "Are these people serious?" my internal voice said.  "You see those pots and pans and utensils in that cupboard?  And how about that big white metal thing with knobs & buttons and four round things on top that get real hot?"  Again, the internal voice only.  I needed my glamorous maintenance technician job. Another apartment, another family: "But how will we wash the dishes?"  She was as straight-faced as the woman in the previous story.  All manner of di

  Pocketing the key, I press the front door closed as my eyes adjust to the shadows.  The flashlight on my cell barely illuminates the living room in the childhood home I shared with my twin.  My hand tingles with numbness, the heft of the marble collection we shared as children a sharp contrast to the fabric of the pillow case wrapped around my fist.  Memories long repressed gnaw at the nape of my neck as I pause to focus on a framed photograph of the four of us in happier times.  Shuddering, I force myself to continue to their bedroom at the end of the hall.  Though I have no solid evidence, I'm certain mother and father are responsible for what happened to Bobby.  "Accident-prone, my ass," I whisper to myself.  My life effectively over since the day I lost my brother- my only sibling and best friend- and not wanting to live for anything life had to offer, I vowed revenge.  So strong it was, fogging my every decision, dictating the direction I took in life, work and rel