۲۶-۰۳-۹۴، ۰۸:۰۶ ب.ظ
She loved her daughter Gloria. The joy of her life–a part of her, of her body and heart and thoughts, mother and daughter made one flesh to protect each other when times got bad. When Gloria’s father hit his wife, threw the dinner across the room, punched holes in the bedroom and bathroom doors. Private places where she could cry, now each with a fist-sized peephole.
She knew he fooled around, and the women he was with smirked at her in the grocery store, the bank, made comments which she tried to block out. Often he was gone for entire weekends. Came home, beat her, raped her, fell asleep. She didn’t make a sound because Gloria’s bedroom was too close.
The girl screamed at her father when she was eight, told him to stop hitting Mommy. Her daughter tried to protect her, little fists smacking hard against his face, numb with alcohol. She drew blood. He didn’t notice. Smacked her once, left her on the living room floor, a bruise on her jaw, her ear pulsing hot for a week.
Nothing changed.
When Gloria was ten, everything changed. She swung a baseball bat, shattered his rib, but he had strong alcohol in his veins to numb the blow. Her father snapped the bat out of her hands, backhanded her. Forgot the bat was in his hand–an extension of his arm. Left Gloria on the living room floor.
She buried her daughter with a dead-eye stare. Felt nothing. Couldn’t weep. Her child–her twin–was gone; she was half a person. He hit her when dinner was cold or hot or late or early. She stared at his chin and let the hand connect. She sat waiting for more, but he grew tired and went to bed.
She lay beside him watching the shadows of tree branches on the ceiling as he snored. Saw Gloria’s face in the silhouettes, moving, blinking, breathing, smiling.
A week after burying her, she unearthed her daughter. Propped the rotting corpse in a rocking chair in the corner of the bedroom. Combed the girl’s long blond hair, some of it tangling in her fingers, some falling to the floor.
When Gloria’s father came home at night, vision blurry, he stumbled to bed, collapsed with his clothes on. The smell woke him up. Flicked on a lamp and thought he saw a life-sized doll sitting in the rocking chair.
As he stooped down to gaze at the hallucination of the doll’s face, the rotten eyes, the sunken grey cheeks, earth between the teeth, she softly stepped out of the closet.
Broke the baseball bat over the back of his head. Took the longer of the two pieces and hit him and hit him and hit him until his skull was a scattering of red and white pieces on the rug, blood up the wall.
She buried him in Gloria’s grave. No one noticed the disturbed earth, the abandoned grave; no one cared.
Now she weaves Gloria’s hair throughout the night. It continues to grow from her daughter’s scalp. It won’t stop growing until she has woven a grave shawl of beautiful blond child’s hair for mother and daughter.
She knew he fooled around, and the women he was with smirked at her in the grocery store, the bank, made comments which she tried to block out. Often he was gone for entire weekends. Came home, beat her, raped her, fell asleep. She didn’t make a sound because Gloria’s bedroom was too close.
The girl screamed at her father when she was eight, told him to stop hitting Mommy. Her daughter tried to protect her, little fists smacking hard against his face, numb with alcohol. She drew blood. He didn’t notice. Smacked her once, left her on the living room floor, a bruise on her jaw, her ear pulsing hot for a week.
Nothing changed.
When Gloria was ten, everything changed. She swung a baseball bat, shattered his rib, but he had strong alcohol in his veins to numb the blow. Her father snapped the bat out of her hands, backhanded her. Forgot the bat was in his hand–an extension of his arm. Left Gloria on the living room floor.
She buried her daughter with a dead-eye stare. Felt nothing. Couldn’t weep. Her child–her twin–was gone; she was half a person. He hit her when dinner was cold or hot or late or early. She stared at his chin and let the hand connect. She sat waiting for more, but he grew tired and went to bed.
She lay beside him watching the shadows of tree branches on the ceiling as he snored. Saw Gloria’s face in the silhouettes, moving, blinking, breathing, smiling.
A week after burying her, she unearthed her daughter. Propped the rotting corpse in a rocking chair in the corner of the bedroom. Combed the girl’s long blond hair, some of it tangling in her fingers, some falling to the floor.
When Gloria’s father came home at night, vision blurry, he stumbled to bed, collapsed with his clothes on. The smell woke him up. Flicked on a lamp and thought he saw a life-sized doll sitting in the rocking chair.
As he stooped down to gaze at the hallucination of the doll’s face, the rotten eyes, the sunken grey cheeks, earth between the teeth, she softly stepped out of the closet.
Broke the baseball bat over the back of his head. Took the longer of the two pieces and hit him and hit him and hit him until his skull was a scattering of red and white pieces on the rug, blood up the wall.
She buried him in Gloria’s grave. No one noticed the disturbed earth, the abandoned grave; no one cared.
Now she weaves Gloria’s hair throughout the night. It continues to grow from her daughter’s scalp. It won’t stop growing until she has woven a grave shawl of beautiful blond child’s hair for mother and daughter.
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