The words over at Three Word Wednesday are carnage, jerk and puncture. Kinda angry.
I open my eyes and hears the sounds of women, wailing.
There’s a gauzy sheet pulled over me, soft and ticklish on my cheeks as I rise.
The wailing is coming from the hallway. My father stands in front of the door, a handkerchief in his hand, jerky spasms rattle his shoulders.
His eyes, I notice, are red from crying.
“You fucking kid,” he says, throwing a work boot into solid wood and rattles the hinges.
You’d think someone died or something.
I turn and in my bed is a sheet-draped corpse; a soft outline in white.
At first, I laugh. Then I jab a couple fingers into my neck, feel for a pulse.
And watch as my brother walks out of the bathroom with a bloodied plastic grocery sack. Shards of glass have punctured the bag and he’s got the whole gory carnage resting on one of my good towels.
“Dad, I’ve got things cleaned up pretty well in there,” he says. “I know mom’s going to want to make the final inspection. I’m going to need a bucket or something for all this glass.”
My dad nods slowly, but doesn’t move.
All of a sudden, I feel weary as hell. Then notice the cold, which cuts to the bone.
There’s fear as the realization begins to paint hues across my memory.
Good God, what have I gone and done?
Fighting women as main characters
9 hours ago