the threads in her head

The stranger’s screams slash into me, as though there were hot stinging rays burning themselves into my heart. I can only shiver - I know this place, this scenario. Maybe every child has gone through it. The tears of the little boy reflect my own, a long time ago.

The adult seems very big then. He’s burly, larger, stronger, enraged eyes set in a mess of wrinkled raw anger. There’s a belt around his waist; a cane on top of the fridge. And his voice is loud. It bellows, echoing and vibrating round the room, deafening in its roar.

The tears come, fast heavy hot tears, sliding down my cheeks, going into my mouth. It’s salty. Mucus rolls down my nose and I can only sniffle. I know without looking at the mirror that my whole face is red.

It’s funny how the red of my teary face can match the red of my father’s infuriated face. It’s really funny. How this two faces are bonded by the same colour, by that same red blood which flows through both of us. And I know both of our hearts are pumping with rapid rapid speed. Blood flows, rushes through us.

Just that his are due to anger, and mine due to fear.

Any moment, he might break into the final course of action, where the hot sting of the cane will fall onto me. Where my screams of pain will cause more whips.

I crash.