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buster

March 20, 2015

“Eat your dinner.” Mom says not cheerfully but more like a threat, like when she tells me I have to take  shower because she thinks I am filthy.

I push the food around on my plate and push some into my mouth and it tastes like nothing. The dog barks outside as the rain has stopped and he wants to shake off in the house, all over the floor and sneak onto the big chair to roll around. “Stop it Buster.” Mom yells out the back door as she gets up and throws her dishes in the sink. She still stands in the kitchen in her underwear, hair wet and makeup almost all rinsed off. “I’m going upstairs to take a shower, do the dishes bunny.” She walks out the door and disappears into the house but I can hear her footsteps.

I wonder what would happen if I just kept sitting here and did nothing. I go outside pat Buster on the head and wipe my wet dog smelling hand on my pants and go to the shed and pick up all the plate shards. I don’t know if I will have anything left of Dad if I don’t. Careful not to cut my hands because injury would give me away and make her mad, again, I take them inside and run up to my room listening for the shower.

On the floor of my closet is a shoebox I kept after Mom bought me my new school shoes and I throw the broken plate inside along with the dead bee I found last spring that is turning to dust and bottle caps I found in the creek. The shower goes off and I slam the box shut and close the closet door. My heart beating really fast and I feel guilty and am not sure I can hide it on my face.

I walk over to my dresser with the mirror and look at myself. I look like him but just a girl. I don’t look like her. I never will.

“Thank god.” I whisper.

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