Small Wounds

I can’t shut my eyes.  They are drowning.   The warm water escapes and collects on my pillow.  At least they have a safe place to go.

 My eyes rest on the stuffed giraffe in the corner of the bedroom.   The darkness casting it in a grotesque shadow.   Patches of stuffing bursting through its neck.  The lack of support causing the giraffe’s head to hang low between its legs.  No one has thought to mend him. 

 I sit up and rest my hands on sides of the twin sized bed.   The small movement  anger the inner springs of the mattress.  I place my feet on the ridged parquet floor feeling for the loose tiles that want to run free.  I steady myself and run my hand across the speckled wall searching for the light switch.  My wrist catches on a metal object tearing the flesh of my palm.     I switch on the light and stare at my left hand. It takes a few seconds for the wound to appear.  It announces it’s presence with the pooling of blood around the opening of skin.  I collapse my hand against itself to stop the leakage.  The rusted nail thrust into the wall looks up at me.  Waiting for me to cry out in pain.  But I won’t.   

I think about cleaning the wound but it’s okay.   I’m used to it.

I walk over to the closet and stare at the blue sequence dress.   I hold the dress up and it sways like the waves on the dinner cruise. 

Holding onto one strap I lower the dress to the floor and step into its opening.   I keep my left hand tightly closed thinking the pressure will staunch the blood flow.  I try to zip up the dress but I can’t do it alone.  I think  about calling out but I don’t want anyone to know I need help.  

I glance at my reflection in the mirror before I walk out of the room.  The dress used to hug my curves and caress the answered prayer growing inside of  me.   But its too tired and torn to hold on to me now.

In my bare feet, I  walk out into the makeshift living room.  There are no windows.  The room is entombed in darkness.   I lift my arms reaching for the shoelace dangling from the ceiling to turn on the light.  An array of mismatched frames appear on the wall.  I step closer and stare into the false windows.   He’s in almost all of them smiling beside me, behind me and in front of me.  I  try to avoid waking my parents but the plastic runners protecting the carpet betray me.  They whisper and murmur as I shuffle my feet. 

As my mother’s bedroom door creaks open, I can feel the wind brush against my exposed back.  She reaches for my shoulder and I recoil from the contact.  

“Give him a call.”  She whispers.  “It’s almost two weeks now.”

“It’s okay. Im fine.”   I muster.

“Any man you find now will be someone another woman threw away.  With him, you know what you gettin.”  

I focus on the wedding photo sitting atop the chipped side table. I reach out with my injured hand to get a closer look at the smile of the young girl in the frame.  

“What happened to your hand you’re  bleedin?”  Her ample frame walks around to face me.  She reaches out for my hand, but I refuse to extend it.

“It’s nothing.  I’m fine.”  

“You are not.”  Her hushed voice bordering on hysterical.  “You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”   

I look down and see the blood  dripping in rhythmic motions.   She limps a few steps into the kitchen her cotton robe  swaying behind her.  I watch her  slowly shuffle items in the cupboard.   She emerges with  a bottle of alcohol, cloth and a knife.  She glances in the direction of her bedroom and decides not to shut the cupboard.  

My mother gently places her hand on my elbow and guides me onto the plastic covered couch.   It releases a deep sigh as we sit on it.

“We don’t have bandages but this will do until i get some.”   She reaches over me for her reading glasses.  Her flattened breast  brush against my arm.  She lays out the pieces of white cloth beside me and carefully tears pieces with the knifes edge into rectangular strips.  Each strip an exact measure of the other.

“Give me your hand.”  

I know the sting of the alcohol is coming but her eyes are reassuring.   

“It’s okay my little giraffe.”  My mom says in a low voice.  “Everything is going to be fine.”  

She hums a church hymn as she tends to my wounds.  Her warm breath and soft touch remove the sharp stabs of pain.  She cleans the congealed blood and softly blows on the open wound.  She looks up from the brim of her glasses and softly says “keep it clean so infection doesn’t spread.”

“I’ve been thinking.”  She touches my cheek then softly pats my hand.  “All these problems you’re having  is because you didn’t get married in a church.” 

The pain stomps over the fresh wound and I retract my hand. 

“It’s fine.”   I say. 

“Look at me and your father.”  She glances at the bedroom door her voice barely above a whisper.  “I didn’t leave and now he hardly ever….” her eyes searching around the small room for the lost words.  

I flex my hand trying to loosen the constricting bandage.   I want to untie it and let the wound ooze all over again.  

“Don’t move around so much, you’ll open the wound and it will take longer to heal.” 

She grabs my hand and readjusts the bandage. “You just don’t throw years in the trash because of an argument.”

 I move to stand but she holds the hem of my dress to stop me.  The dress cascades to the floor exposing the purple swelling on my abdomen and thighs.  

Her eyes sweep over my body and rests on my empty womb.  She refuses to meet the reflection in my eyes.  We both know what she will find.  It takes a few seconds for the sting of silence to hit me. 

My mother slowly lowers her hand and moves to the end of the seat cushion.  She crouches to the floor.  Her slow movements marked by the arthritis in her knees.  She raises the dress onto my stiff body.  She walks behind me and I feel the closure of the zipper rising.  

“Things may not be perfect but you have it better than most.”    Her warm breath disturbing the hairs on the back of my neck.  She pats my shoulder and turns to leave.  She pulls the shoelace to turn off the bulb, taking all the light with her. 

“It’s okay.  I’m fine.”  I whisper.  

I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark but they never do.  I’m soaked in darkness.    I extend my arms and reach out into the shadows.  A faint spark of light flashes in the corner of my eye.   I hold on to it.  Its smooth cold surface mingles with warmth.  There are a million stars in the room now.   Each tiny bit of light the exact measure of the other.   I take one last look and shut my eyes. 

“It’s okay.  I’m fine now.”

If you or anyone you love is being physically abused, please seek help. For more information on domestic violence and what healthy love looks like, visit the link below.

Healthy Love