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bleeding mascara
“It’s much more than words and feelings sucking me dry.”
It’s 3:30am, I’m suppose to be getting up at 7 to get ready and go with my uncle when he goes to
work since he is driving me to Oshawa. I don’t really know why I’m still up, my eye lids are
heavy and my muscles are aching. Maybe I’m preventing myself to going and laying in that bed and
thinking about everything that’s in my head right now or maybe I’m trying to prevent the
nightmares that have been keeping me up all week from awaking me in fear. I think I need the
rest though, I’m really not feeling well at all.
A memory plays so clearly over and over in my head.
I’m 11, maybe 12 years old sitting in our old house, upstairs, playing a game on the computer.
Mom walks in the room with a broom in her hand to sweep the floor. “Get out of my way,” she
says. “Give me a minute, I’m almost finished and then I will,” I tell her. The next thing I
know, she pulls the chair out from under me and I crash to the wood flooring. I start to cry
and she yells at me to get up. “You’re a mean mom,” I say between the sobs. As I stand up and
turn around to walk out of the room, I feel something strike me across the back so hard it
stings and brings more tears. She had hit me as hard as she could with the broom stick right
across my back. When I turn to yell at her for what she had done, she spits in my face. I run
down the hall to my room crying, asking myself why this had happened, what I had done wrong. To
this day I still can’t recall what it was that I had done. I still remember that day like it was
yesterday. And now, Mom always asks me what she ever did to me, how she ever hurt me. She tells
me she was a good parent and I really have no reason to feel the way I do. Is she right?
© Jen Chilton, 29 December 2004
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