HumpDay Quickie #113

Posted: June 29, 2016 in Hump-Day Quickies
Tags: , , , , ,

Happiness

by Marie McKay

He owned my mother’s happiness. He broke it up like breadcrumbs and fed it to her when it suited him.
Mum was an ever decreasing presence. First, her body shrank and then her soul.
He made everything shrink. His mates would come round, the pecking order clear to see. They’d make this one guy cry, said stuff about his sister. I think he didn’t have any words to fight back with. After, they’d have me make them thick sandwiches. And they’d show off to the big man who made them feel big and small all at the same time; profanity and food erupting from their mouths until he tired of them.
He made the world too real for a 7-year-old. Once I wet my trousers because I was too scared to walk past the chair he was sprawling on. I’d held off going to the toilet for hours.
He made my stomach feel like razor blades. He was bovver boots stamping on my guts. He was a pneumatic drill in my head.
One day, in the back room I found my mum’s box of happiness. He’d forgotten to lock it away. I gave it back to her expecting things to be the way they once were. She kissed me and that was the last time I saw her.
On the night she died, he watched a film. He laughed and laughed and laughed. I eventually fell asleep on the couch dreaming of nothing.

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