HOME IS WHERE YOUR STORY BEGINS

“WRITING IS LIKE DRIVING A CAR AT NIGHT. YOU NEVER SEE FURTHER THEN YOUR HEADLIGHTS, BUT YOU CAN MAKE THE WHOLE TRIP THAT WAY.”  E.L. DOCTOROW

WALLS THE COLOR OF TEARS

Should I paint the walls a different color? But what color? Does it matter? Will it help to disguise all that they’ve seen? Will it help to make my insides feel better? Will it hide all the blows on my body, my back, buttocks, arms, and face? His powerful fists as they hit the walls when I was quick enough to duck or run. But he would catch me. He would always catch me. All my screams and tears were in these walls. All the plates, the ash trays, figurines I threw at these walls to save myself.

I thought we loved each other. How do you hurt someone that brutally whom you say you love. Is our love making after the fights on these walls? I would protest and pull away but he would cry and hold me pressed against these walls. I knew he was sorry and I would cave in because I did love him so. I loved the way he made love to me. The feel of his hands on my body, caressing me.  He knew my special spots and when he touched them he would electrify me. He said I was the only one for him. Even with all the beatings, he was the only one for me.

Then the final night came. I couldn’t take it anymore. He had me against the wall and I cried loud, hard, vinegar tears. They were no longer sweet, loving, and forgiving. He knew in that instant I had changed inside. He stopped and looked. He knew I could no longer forgive. He watched me change. I watched him change. We heard cries from the wall. The  walls were damaged just as we were damaged, beyond repair this time.

I felt the wetness on the walls. We turned and saw the tears. That’s when it was the last time. That’s when I was left alone never to feel those hands anymore in violence or love making. Can paint disguise the hurt, the pain, the tears? Has such a color been made?

 

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