Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc.

Mother & Shield

A beauty crying uncontrollable tears, it’s a pain you can feel through the cracked and worn door. Take your focus to another closed off room, and some monotone repetition of desperate spells will be heard behind it. This hallway is one of millions that infest the structures of the strong and powerful vessels of the age. These elegantly designed vessels foster life, bring warmth to winter’s kisses, and invite cool mountain air to breath when our nearest sun is harsh with its rays. No matter the placement or poise, the sound of rain can still echo the endless hallways, sometimes wearing at the foundations like the blunt tools of the early patriarch. Despite the flaws beneath, it can withstand, for those that withstood. They remain this way because there are locked rooms inside all women.

I try to open my eyes; it hurts, the left one refuses completely and continues to swell. The floor is cold and I think I’m bleeding. The storm outside can’t drown out the sound of Justin screaming. He’s reaching for me, crawling quickly like he used to before the illness. His desperation eats away at the red paint on my fragile heart; it makes me weak and pale. My instincts tell me to grasp for my child, but I need that monster’s attention focused this way. ‘Don’t worry my little J., mummy will be fine’, I mouth to him as I struggle to my feet. My legs tremble – ravaged by the adrenaline. This kitchen used to feel bigger; at least it was when we bought it the summer your mum passed away. In fact, you said that very thing to me that day, whispering in my ear so the estate agent wouldn’t notice. Now, I only feel the lack of escape. The one in front of me, dead eyed and lost to empathy, is not the man you introduced me to Jenny. He’s twisted, deformed from love into the shape of hate.

Yesterday.

-“Who’s texting you at this time of night?” he said, meandering into the kitchen groggy. Even from a couple of feet away, I could smell the rust of whiskey on his breath.

-“My boss, he saying there’s an emergency at the office, one of the interns has deleted a bunch of presentations due for tomorrow.” My reply was natural to the point of naiveté.

-“What does he need you for? There are plenty of other male I.T people he can call.” A kiss of his slightly stained teeth closed the sentence.

-“It’s my job.” I responded with the fatigue of a hundred song and dances. He turned his head to me from his perch on the kitchen stool and said.

-“To fuck him?” Those words, said with a dry threat were a warning and challenge.

Now.

Trapped in between one hazard and the next, my arms are raised half-mast in worn out fear. Blind to my white flag, he comes again.

Close your eyes and lock the door.

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh

© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2018. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.