As I serve his dinner, he asks why my hand is still bandaged. I just look at him. He asks why I’m running around with my hand on my chest like an idiot. I tell him why. He says “You’re getting on my nerves.” I put the babies down for bed and I try to take my time. “Take that stupid bandage off,” he barks when I return. I don’t want to. “TAKE IT OFF,” he yells, and I take it off. I keep my hand tight to my chest. He gets up and grabs my hand just above the wound and I flinch.
“STITCHES!!” he screams in my face. He twists my arm. “I frikin’ told you NOT to go to the hospital! Didn’t I tell you that?” I whimper that I didn’t go…I didn’t go…He grabs my hair and yells some more. “What did you tell them, Neoma!” He shakes me and I cry out that he’s hurting me. “WHAT did you tell them!” He shakes me so hard, I barely can get the words out I did it myself…
He yanks my arm back harder, pulls me down by my hair screaming “You’re such a frikin’ stupid cow!” And I scream “I DID IT MYSELF!” I reel from the pain. I fall to the floor and he yells “You lying bitch!” and kicks me in ribs. I gasp and get up as fast as I can. Everything is spinning. I try to focus on him and he just hauls off and slaps me so hard I fall over again. “What the hell is wrong with you Neoma! Why can’t you be normal and just do as I say! Life would be a lot less stressful around here if you just smarten up, Neoma!”
I get up and thrust my hand in his face. “Does that look like stitches to you??” I cry out, tears and snot running. “This looks like I just hemmed a skirt because I did it myself with my sewing kit!” He stops and looks at me like I’m demented. I am demented. He grabs me and I yelp. He looks at my hand and it’s obvious it’s not stitches. Right in this moment my biggest fear is that he will ask me where I got the sewing kit. I’m running lies through my head and think I will just tell him I’ve always had a sewing kit. He doesn’t ask.
I’m so tired…The whole time this is happening, I’m listening for the babies. Always listening…The pushes me away and finishes his dinner, complaining it’s cold now because he had to deal with my dramas. I somewhat hide in the bathroom, hiding to the extent a bathroom with an open door will afford me. I am careful to leave the door open so he doesn’t barge in unannounced and I’m off guard again. I never have my back to the door either. I wash my face and tie my hair back. I sit on the toilet seat and tend to my hand. It’s a miracle it’s healing at all.
And there he is, standing in the bathroom door, hands up on the frame looking at me with contempt. “These things would not happen if you just listened and did as you’re told,” he says. “You just have to start dramas and fights and then you make me do things. It’s all your fault.”
Of course it is. To the last drop of alcohol he takes…to the last drop of my blood he sheds…it will always be my fault…
Next -> A Normal Day
Tags: bitch, last drop of blood, stitches, tears and snot