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.
Max wakes in his yard. Looks, cries. Barks desperately. They’re home – almost. Across the street at the neighbor’s without him. Selfless love.
“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.
He. She. They. Bliss. Boredom. Betrayal. Court papers. Custody hearings. Canceled visitations. Restraining order. Father’s fury. Shotgun.
She sat in the dark, bat in hand while two younger sisters slept. The bedroom door creaked open; the bat splintered their big brother’s toe.
I made her a sandwich, washed an apple, and hoped she’d cope without me. She waved goodbye through a gin-fueled haze as I hopped on the bus.