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avery {d5} wilson || CB
Sept 27, 2016 21:25:55 GMT -5
Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Sept 27, 2016 21:25:55 GMT -5
avery wilson .
They had eyes like broken glass. Sunken into their skulls and sharp enough to slice you open. I remember nights sat huddled before the fire in a home that was not ours, back pressed into my mother's chest and I noticed the bruises on her cheeks did not linger like those of the broken people. She was vibrant, she was alive and even before we escaped father's fists it was as though she was wildfire and the world merely dry brush.
And they scared me, the broken people. With their hopeless hollow words and sharp tongues that dug into my chest and made me feel so much smaller than I ever was. It was the strong who protected the weak, my mother would say as her hands combed through dark, tangled hair, smiling in her understanding sort of way. It was our job to fix the broken people, she told me.
There was one of them in the home that was not ours.
Her name was Angelina. She was twenty-seven and she had gotten married at twenty-three. When she was twenty-five she had a baby and two months later he died in his sleep. A week after that her husband started drinking, he bore his fist and split her wide open, with blood and tears and grief that neither could bear.
She came to the safe place then, to hide away from it all. And I decided to glue her back together, a thirteen year old boy with plaster caked to his palms and long hours spent combing her hair and cleaning her room, folding her clothes and making her smile at least once a day.
And he was fourteen when he walked into her room with a piece of his birthday cake to share.
He was fourteen when he found her hanging from the scaffolding.
And they scared me, the broken people. With their hopeless hollow words and sharp tongues that dug into my chest and made me feel so much smaller than I ever was. It was the strong who protected the weak, my mother would say as her hands combed through dark, tangled hair, smiling in her understanding sort of way. It was our job to fix the broken people, she told me.
There was one of them in the home that was not ours.
Her name was Angelina. She was twenty-seven and she had gotten married at twenty-three. When she was twenty-five she had a baby and two months later he died in his sleep. A week after that her husband started drinking, he bore his fist and split her wide open, with blood and tears and grief that neither could bear.
She came to the safe place then, to hide away from it all. And I decided to glue her back together, a thirteen year old boy with plaster caked to his palms and long hours spent combing her hair and cleaning her room, folding her clothes and making her smile at least once a day.
And he was fourteen when he walked into her room with a piece of his birthday cake to share.
He was fourteen when he found her hanging from the scaffolding.
