Tuesday, 24 November 2009

Last weekend.

How did you feel? Were you upstairs, hiding from the shouting and the anger; were you nursing an anger yourself that was close to flooding over; were you unaware of the drama before... it happened? What alerted you? The shout. The crash. The cry. The noise of the stamping footsteps, the yelling voices? The din of your brother slamming into the room and hauling him away? The sound of your little sister's crying, sobbing screams?
Your feet pounded against the hollow stairs. You swung through the doorway and before you had even reached him, your hands were grabbing for him. Your hands grasping the rough fabric. Your wrists grazing his collar. Your fingertips digging, blunt, into his skin.
She is awkward on the floor, her hand cradling her arm. Is she crying out at you? Is she rising, fast as she can, to her feet? Is she reaching for you, clutching at your jacket, pulling you away? Who is it that drags you from him? Who is it that prevents the anger from making its mark, the fury from fulfilling its task, the guilt from paying its due?
Who is it that reaches for the phone: dials the number with cold fingers, asks for the authority with frozen voice, waits in stagnant silence until the doorbell rings?

She cannot answer your call. She sits in a heavy chamber and remembers and apologizes and prays. She cannot help you all.

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