Broken

The start ii

I was seven.
I woke to the gentle tapping of the rain on my window pane.
I sat up and the smell of soup ticked my nose.

I don't want to leave my room, I don't want to go anywhere. I don't want to leave the comfort of my cushy cocoon. I don't want to ever leave the downy plush of my mattress.
But the smell of food that held the promise of breakfast...pulled me out. Mother had the ability to make your tongue dance. I did not want to miss that party.

So holding on to my blanket, I leave the comfort of my cove that is the color of lilac.
My stomach gurgled but I made no move to placate it.  Father sat on an armchair watching the evening news.

"Good evening father"

He barely looked in my direction
"Why is there a scarf tied around your waist?"

I loosened the scarf. It was a temporary measure that I took to placate the wiggling worms in my belly.

"No reason."

He took a swig of his beer, "your mother is in the kitchen"

I bunched the scarf up in my hands and moved to the kitchen. I stand at the entrance to the kitchen.

Mother hovers over the pot, peering at its contents. She seems satisfied with the outcome and then faces the kitchen cupboards.

She opens the cupboard and takes out the white ceramic bowls for herself and father but a red bowl for myself.

She turns around to sneeze and sees me.

Her eyes light up and them wiping her sweaty brow with the hem of her apron she beckons me over.

I slowly go in but I stay far away from the pot.

Breathing in the aroma of the food the back of my throat pulses in a mildly dull throb

"Is there pepper in the food?"

She rinses the soup spoon, "yes"

"I guess I won't be eating it. My throat hurts"

Mother swallowed and then breathing in; "why does it hurt?".

"He pushed his fingers down my throat because I drank milk without your permission."

The soup bubbled threatening to spill over, she quickly turns off the gas.

"Oh and he slapped me, my ears were ringing like the tea kettle. But I don't have a colored face like you. I wonder why my face didn't turn yellow like yours. Is there some sort of magic"

Her jaw tightens, her eyes screw shut

"Why is it sometimes your face turns yellow."

I knew why it turned yellow. We all knew.

She stops scooping the soup and then says.

"Go to your room".

I got down from the stool and ran into my room. Seeing as I didn't have anything to do, I grabbed my bag from my wardrobe...an ebony door with silver leaf accents, a walk in wardrobe if I may, each row covered with a pale peach to lilac miniature curtains because I liked my properties shielded from prying eyes even if it was inside a closet, and pulled out a mental mathematics textbook to read.

Father maintained daily how important it is to read, he would not be seen as a father to a dunce. He yelled it down my ears about how I had to earn my keep and since I was too small to actually be of any use I could at least understand the textbooks he bought for me.

At least I was sent back to my haven, back to the sinking softness of my bed.

A steaming bowl of thick spicy pumpkin soup with chunks of meat and fish was brought into my room by my mother. I placed my book down and skipped to mother ready to partake of the food.

My room had a table close to my wardrobe facing the wan orange walls with tiny sprinkles of silver, my red bowl of yummy compensation. Days like this were worth the dreadful noise.
Mother was a good cook so at least in my dreary days she was my silver lining. I didn't realize I had finished the food and was chasing after stray vegetables in the ceramic plate. By the side of the plate, a tall glass of milk.
I gazed at the milk my throat pulsing at the sight, remembering the punishment I had endured.

She stroked my hair " Take the milk. If you need something, you tell me."

She had stood there and watched me eat, I too preoccupied with guzzling down the steaming pumpkin soup had not taken notice of it.
I testily held the glass, I looked at my mother for confirmation. My throat hurts, I don't think I can take another lesson.

Her eyes moistens, she nods to give me confirmation. I slowly sip and then tense...waited for the axe to drop.

No questing fingers, no harsh grip, just a milky deluge of goodness.

I put the cup down, my upper lip white and look to her.

She returns my gaze, her eyes watery and with a nod, picks up the tray to leave.

"Thank you ma"

She makes a noise in reply and hurry out my room.

******************************************
My back against the railing, I was sat at the balcony. The rails were high, so jumping off wasn't an option.

I needed to sleep, a deep sleep. I knew if I did the fire in both my feet would stop. In my mind that was the way to stop the fire.

If I was just unconscious, for a while, the pain would stop.

Mama wasn't around to make it stop. She would rub balm and press it with hot water and then kiss it. But she wasn't here. She had gone to work. She had left me with father.

I had tiptoed to the bathroom because he was home. I didn't want to disturb him. What I had been trying to avoid had happened. He was lying wrapped up in a blanket on the rug.

I had to go through the narrow small hallway to use the guest bathroom. I liked the guest bathroom, it smelled like hot chocolate. I stepped on his fingers.

I didn't see him because the overhead light was switched off. When I realized what happened I panicked and attempted to run. He grabbed my ankle.

I fell.

My chin banging hard against the tiles.
He dragged me by my hair to the guest bathroom. Behind the door was a stick, a thin stick.

He made me sit and put my feet on the table and then used the stick on my feet.

Now I sat near the balcony, my feet pulsing and red. My chin purple.

The echoing noises from the flat suggested my mother was home and so the day like every other day repeated itself. No doubt Mama's face would have another shade of yellow or blue but I liked it better with my favorite color. Red.