a different earth

The Hole in the Wall

human year: twenty-three

Time froze. His eyes registered what he had done. Where his fist was. The small cloud of dust and plaster falling to the floor.
Never before had I been afraid of his touch.
Never again would a disagreement be the same.
A dry sob tore through the dead silence. A moment later I realised that it was my own. His hand fell to his side. The knuckles were painfully red but fortunately, nothing looked broken. A pitying expression took hold of my face while I wracked my brain for something with which I could soothe his injury.
He tore his eyes from mine, looking past me. The crease between his eyebrows deepened and a moment of fear flashed over his angry frown. I slowly turned my head enough to see a fist-sized hole in the wall.
I blinked, and in the moment that my eyes were closed I saw the image of my face could've been, bloodied from his defensive actions.
It was my fault he was so angry. I had pushed him too far, provoked him. Punched his ego in the face as hard as he'd tried to punch mine. What I'd said was pointless; all it did was anger a boy who had done nothing but love me blindly. I had called him stupid, a word worse than whore, bitch, slut, freak. But really, he was stupid. Who else would care enough about what I think to listen so closely to my words? He's always been sensitive to what I say, has always absorbed any word that might allude to his intelligence. I know he's careful when speaking to my friends, afraid that they might later tell me that I'm too smart for someone like him.
Be that as it may, my heart has never given a damn about intellect.
Perhaps that's why I chose to step towards him than to shrink away.
Or perhaps heart and mind had nothing to do with it. It could have been an impulse acquired from years of seeking his singular comfort just as easily as it could have been a maternal instinct to comfort my Tom, the same boy who came to me for solace when the other kindergarteners were too much for his tired soul.
My arms reached for him but he carefully pressed his hands against me, keeping me at a distance. He lifted his black leather jacket from the iron hook by the front door, then turned to me. In a deadly yet breaking voice, he said, "You think I'm stupid? You nearly messed up your pretty little face, baby." Hands that were so often a haven yanked open the door with such force that it hit the wall and bounced back in time to close on the heels of his blue DCs.
A frame fell to the hardwood floor and a Polaroid fluttered away from the shattered glass. It wasn't a sentimental First--I doubt we photographed our first date or first campfire--but that's why I'd framed it. Denver had snapped a picture while I was baking, forever wrapping TJ's arms around my waist while I mixed batter for a Sunday Evening cake. My face was smudged with chocolate from his attempt to kiss me after nicking a spoon of frosting.
The shards surrounding the happy memory resembled my heart.