Posted on March 15, 2014 by Patricia Ann McNair3.15.2014 Journal Prompt Photo by Paul Trevor March 15, 2014: She told my mother everything. Share this:ShareClick to email a link to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading... Related
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She said she was my friend. My closest and dearest. We were like sisters, she said, as near as that. And I had always wanted a sister. It was like she completed me. And she tried on my clothes and I thought she looked pretty in them, like she was a better version of me. And she fussed over my hair, folding it into neat braids. And she kissed me once, like a boy kisses a girl, and her tongue tasted of lemons.
Sisters, she said. And she let me look after the baby, showed me how to hold him and taught me songs to sing to help the baby sleep and dances to do to stop the baby’s tears till she came home. And she stroked my face with the palm of her hand, and I wished for kisses then, but her hands smelled of men, the sour reek of their cocks. She paid me three dollars for the babysitting.
There was a night that she was later than all the rest, and I could see that her dress was torn and there was blood under her nails. Her breath came in heavy snorts, like the cow after the bull has mounted it. And she said men are all bastards and we did not turn on the lights in the house for fear the baby woke. And she undressed and lay down naked beside me on the floor, and the moonlight stroked her arms and her tits and the swelling of her tummy; maybe it was the moon, but in my head it was me.
Then I got a boy of my own. His kisses did not taste of lemons, tasted instead of bitter coffee and cigarettes. He said my name over and over when we were together, as if he was not sure it was me. And he said I was the prettiest girl in all the town, which I knew was a lie, but which I liked him saying anyway. And he put his hand under my dress and I closed my eyes and I thought of how it would be if it was not his hands but hers. And we drank a little whisky and we fucked in the dark at the back of the town hall.
Later I told her all about it. Like we were sisters. I told her about his kisses and his hands under my dress and the sour smell of his cock after he withdrew and the cold and the wet between my legs. And stars sharp as pins in the sky behind his head before he climbed off of me. And the quick that he was in dressing afterwards and pulling me to my feet in case someone came and not using my name when he said goodnight.
She slapped me around the ears and she said I was a fuckwit and a dumb ass, and she took me to the clinic though it was late, hammered on the door till the lights snapped on inside and a small voice behind the door asked what was all the fuss. She watched me take the pill and wash it down with a glass of clear water, paid the woman in the clinic. Then she took me home and she told my mother everything.