Read Online Etched in Sand by Regina Calcaterra - Free Book Online
Authors: Regina Calcaterra
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glass.
“You stupid little bitch,” she grunts through her teeth, landing her first kick. “You should’ve never been born, slut! You were my biggest mistake, you stupid little motherfucker.”
She’s barefoot, but all the weight of her body lands in the small of my back, then on my ribs and pelvis and elbows. I roll on my side, trying to get out from under her. Instead she brings her heel down into the side of my waist, then grabs me by my hair and slams my face into the floor. Blood flows out of my nose, and I can feel it seeping from my back from the broken glass. I roll over on my side into a ball—it’s a short opportunity to catch my breath before I use what little energy I have left to stand up and face her one more time. As I turn to rise, her foot slams me full-force in the stomach and sends me flying to the floor again. “You little fucking slut!” she screams, puffing hard and finding another burst of energy to kick me again. I stagger to stand up, about to run at her, when she grips me around the neck and shoves me backward. First I feel my head meet the floor, then my back—my legs and arms had no chance to stretch out and break the fall. I feel the sting of the glass sticking in my head and the blood trickling out of my scalp. But I fight to scramble up fast, knowing that if I stay down, her feet will start kicking blows to my head and ribs.
My will is stronger than hers, but she’s drunk and more than twice my body weight. The force of her arms sends me into the railing, where the kids are standing on the other side. I slide to the floor, stunned. When her leg comes in again, I swing at it to trip her, surprised she stumbled. Then I scramble to my feet and dart past her, out the front door.
She turns around just as I make it to the porch, her voice thundering after me. “Get your ass back in here now! I’m not finished with you yet!”
Somehow I’ve made it across the yard. She can still see me, but so can the neighbors if they choose to open their blinds to the commotion. I slip into the darkness and press myself against the chain-link fence. I hear her voice echo in the cold air. “You get back in here so I can finish what you started. You’re gonna get what you deserve, you little bastard!”
Four months earlier, I would have obeyed her and gone back inside to take the rest of my beating, especially knowing that if she hadn’t exhausted her anger yet, she may take it out on Rosie. But something keeps me from listening this time. She continues to loom a few yards from me. My hair and face are caked with blood, my back stinging from the cuts and aching from the pounding. The only thing keeping me from collapsing is my will not to submit to her again. She yells one more time.
“Get back in this goddamn house!”
I shake my head, pounding from the beating, and whisper:
“No . No!”
Then I turn from her voice and walk as fast as I can toward Middle Country Road.
The cold concrete wall outside Shoes ’N Things feels soothing against my back. Out of the reach of the streetlight, I pull my legs into my chest and rest my head on my knees. I catch my breath from the tears and dig into one of the green garbage bins for a few boxes. I pull them open and line them up between the Dumpster and the building’s back wall to create a bed.
It’s probably been an hour when I open my eyes at the sound of her jalopy rolling down the street. I peek out around the corner and see the car turning in the direction of the bars.
I wish these feelings were new to me—the hurt, anger, rejection from the emotional abuse, and the searing physical pain—but for all of the near-fourteen years of my life, this is the only consistent, predictable part of my relationship with Cookie. To me, feeling secure means the opposite of what it means to most kids. Children are supposed to find their greatest safety and comfort in the arms of their mothers. Instead, Cookie’s homecoming is our darkest danger, like the
“You stupid little bitch,” she grunts through her teeth, landing her first kick. “You should’ve never been born, slut! You were my biggest mistake, you stupid little motherfucker.”
She’s barefoot, but all the weight of her body lands in the small of my back, then on my ribs and pelvis and elbows. I roll on my side, trying to get out from under her. Instead she brings her heel down into the side of my waist, then grabs me by my hair and slams my face into the floor. Blood flows out of my nose, and I can feel it seeping from my back from the broken glass. I roll over on my side into a ball—it’s a short opportunity to catch my breath before I use what little energy I have left to stand up and face her one more time. As I turn to rise, her foot slams me full-force in the stomach and sends me flying to the floor again. “You little fucking slut!” she screams, puffing hard and finding another burst of energy to kick me again. I stagger to stand up, about to run at her, when she grips me around the neck and shoves me backward. First I feel my head meet the floor, then my back—my legs and arms had no chance to stretch out and break the fall. I feel the sting of the glass sticking in my head and the blood trickling out of my scalp. But I fight to scramble up fast, knowing that if I stay down, her feet will start kicking blows to my head and ribs.
My will is stronger than hers, but she’s drunk and more than twice my body weight. The force of her arms sends me into the railing, where the kids are standing on the other side. I slide to the floor, stunned. When her leg comes in again, I swing at it to trip her, surprised she stumbled. Then I scramble to my feet and dart past her, out the front door.
She turns around just as I make it to the porch, her voice thundering after me. “Get your ass back in here now! I’m not finished with you yet!”
Somehow I’ve made it across the yard. She can still see me, but so can the neighbors if they choose to open their blinds to the commotion. I slip into the darkness and press myself against the chain-link fence. I hear her voice echo in the cold air. “You get back in here so I can finish what you started. You’re gonna get what you deserve, you little bastard!”
Four months earlier, I would have obeyed her and gone back inside to take the rest of my beating, especially knowing that if she hadn’t exhausted her anger yet, she may take it out on Rosie. But something keeps me from listening this time. She continues to loom a few yards from me. My hair and face are caked with blood, my back stinging from the cuts and aching from the pounding. The only thing keeping me from collapsing is my will not to submit to her again. She yells one more time.
“Get back in this goddamn house!”
I shake my head, pounding from the beating, and whisper:
“No . No!”
Then I turn from her voice and walk as fast as I can toward Middle Country Road.
The cold concrete wall outside Shoes ’N Things feels soothing against my back. Out of the reach of the streetlight, I pull my legs into my chest and rest my head on my knees. I catch my breath from the tears and dig into one of the green garbage bins for a few boxes. I pull them open and line them up between the Dumpster and the building’s back wall to create a bed.
It’s probably been an hour when I open my eyes at the sound of her jalopy rolling down the street. I peek out around the corner and see the car turning in the direction of the bars.
I wish these feelings were new to me—the hurt, anger, rejection from the emotional abuse, and the searing physical pain—but for all of the near-fourteen years of my life, this is the only consistent, predictable part of my relationship with Cookie. To me, feeling secure means the opposite of what it means to most kids. Children are supposed to find their greatest safety and comfort in the arms of their mothers. Instead, Cookie’s homecoming is our darkest danger, like the
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