INTERLUDE (v);

223 33 4
                                    

six-year-old me, jumps from one patch of dry land to the next,

alongside my four-year-old brother/part time sister "lucie"

we are sweaty as we avoid crocodile invested waters, the roots of my hair natural, the rest relaxed; i am dressed in a flannel button down and brimming with glee

in walks, my father – the polar opposite to a child –

he does not see the crocodiles, or the survivors this (imaginary) world has made of his children.

he sees a warzone (of a living room), he sees his cross-dressing son and his daughter acting like a boy; he sees something to be ashamed of.

my brother is the first to stop, as i shove him into the deadly waters and let him succumb to the greatest predator of them all,

meanwhile i continue; my father is simply another monster i have to survive. i have managed so far, with my wits and my resilience

it is not until, enough time passes, he screams for me to stop and i do. chest heaving, dripping sweat

he asks what i am doing. what riot have i unleashed unto this house

so i respond: i'm a tomboy

and that day is the first time i am truly afraid of my father as he morphs into a beast even greater than the one he was moments before. he asks me, to repeat myself

(translation: this is your one only opportunity correct your mistake)

so i apologise and begin to tidy the living room

the failings of a surgically healed heart | a collectionWhere stories live. Discover now