His grimy hands are all over my body. I scream, “Don’t do this?” Years later he’s on trial; my mother blind to reality sings his praises.
She could see the pain in his eyes. It was her fault he was in here. There would always be more than bullet proof glass between them.
The door slams. He hears her sigh as she straightens the painting in the hall. He hides his suitcase. “Bugger,” he thinks. “She’s early.”
He has scars she can see and some she only feels. Distrust. Paranoia. And, on bad days, the back of his hand. They are both survivors.
“Can you pass me the shampoo?” she asked, hand out of the shower. He was passing by the door. He smiled, bent down, and handed her the cat.
“I hope your day gets better,” said her husband, hovering in the front door. “Me too,” she said, eyes shut tight. The door closed softly.