He told me he wanted to find the perfect bottle of wine. It had to smell of wood, like the material of the rotting house we lived in. It had to be red, like the blood from the death of an egg, flowing out and onto my jeans--and he loved to cackle at me when I mistakenly dyed my clothes the color of dead tissue. The wine couldn't be too tart, unlike his breath that was permanently stained with ethanol. I joined his cause.
He bought and emptied a bottle every weekend, always inviting me onto his chair for a taste. In his truck--that would have made him a better wife than Mom ever could--I would sit with him, and his muddy, nubby fingers would find their way to the small of my back; I'd cry of displeasure and blame it on the one tendency my brain religiously pledged to follow: sensory overload. The Boston CD; the tart wine; enclosed space; hand on back; raspy voice and cough that made my fingers tense up with a thirst to punch. I would excuse myself to the house, and he would begin to mock me.
The red wine that burned the back of his throat did not burn his vocal chords, though I wish it had. I wished for silence in the hours when he sipped his red wine in his plastic Mardi Gras cup, ice cubes settling at the surface. He'd eye me, ask why I wasn't showing off my legs like the slut I was, and proceed to place his hands on my shoulders or back. I'd yell, Mom'd laugh. Brother bit his lip, the dog growled.
YOU ARE READING
Lotuslands All Die (A Collection)
Short StoryJust as the title says, this booklet is a collection of poems and short stories I have written and wish to publish to my devoted followers. Please comment or let me know how you felt about any of my works--it is greatly appreciated!
