A boy disinfected my blood from the carpet while he cried so hard, he hid his head. He had turned my page before the chapter was done. I otherwise sat still as stitches burst from my skin.
A vinyl I don't remember played. Distressed wood smelled of something repellent. The option for repentance was gone. God was never present, so how else could I forgive myself?
Back then we were alone. Children pale and misunderstood left alone yet alive in an attic, living an unending nightmare chain. We both lost something up there. He lost his innocent self and would watch my weight before I lost a baby on the carpet.
All I could do was forgive him again — that dirt poor excuse for a human.
~ A.M, F.H.
Written & Published 12th of October 2021. Inspiration evolved from an incident in the book "Flowers In the Attic" from V.C. Andrews into a similar account of my own.