February 13th is my 85th birthday, folks. One day I’m tap dancing, the next I’m married to my first love with six children.
Last week I introduced Reconstructing Charlie to you. She’s the one with the father who had a belt. Remember him? A belt of whiskey and more.
Moving on with this weeks excerpt:
The front door banged open hard enough to rattle the dishes in the cabinet. Mom’s one treasure–a porcelain egg–rolled to the edge,teetered for a second and fell end over end to the hardwood floor. The small egg cracked with the force of a bomb. Mom stared at broken pieces from a life she had long ago. Her face turned white, every freckle showing and my fists clenched.
He staggered around waving a tire iron in the air, muscled from working a jackhammer for the city all his sorry life and ugly drunk. This time I was ready.
I wrestled it out of his filthy hands, hit him good and he lay torn up with blood everywhere on Mom’s clean floor. We were safe now because I’d done this terrible thing and I didn’t know how I could live with it.
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