Kel
Jedi
This is what I wrote just recently when my 15 year old daughter informed me that she wants to go live with her dad.
Firstborn leaving
A quick glance at the mirror was reddish pink but seemed bloody. The swelling blood brought her back to the mirror. Red all through the eyes where the white usually contrasts, and red around the eyes where outlines of peach usually defined. The red puffed out from her face and shrank the size of her eyes and disappearing eyelashes. The red nose swelled more drippy distortion. There was no going on stage this night. No amount of make-up would hide the smear of the red she saw in the mirror. Loud now, but silent, building a scream. She opened her mouth but her throat clenched tight as she tasted the salty wet. There would be no pretty songs sung tonight. Singing would only make her wail red.
She needed someone to blame. Whose fault was this? His, yes. Always his. He will pay for this. But in the next dripping blink she saw in the mirror: No. This was her fault. The bleeding would have to come from what was already red blurring back at her. Her short cuts. Her allowing. Her buying fake-love. Her fault. She will bleed today, and had always, not him.
It was the red color that came from her 15 years ago in a state of blissful delirium as she embraced the red-wiped true love. What color was her bliss? Not red. Maybe a soft peach, but not red. Bliss born as the firstborn looked into her eyes, knowing. She saw peach then, not red. But it was red that was waiting, pooling, red to end the bliss.
They had left her alone then, 15 years ago, to coo in her soft peach bliss for a while. The home-birth was his idea, an idea she still believed in despite the hours of agony and risk. He left her and the bundle too. He needed food. Later the assistant returned, spun around fast, shouting. The red color warmed the blankets and seeped into the floor quietly as it left her face white and shrank her lips. She remembers mumbling, no, I’m fine, and the shock as the midwife’s big hand clawed her belly and yanked. As her body once again contracted against a malicious squeeze, two big needles stabbed into both tightened legs and shot the contented first-love peach embrace. She’s hemorrhaging, they said. Both big claws of the hag now wrenched on her tired womb. What are you doing to me? Stop the bleeding. Whispering, hurried bodies, phone calls. He came in, saw the blood. Grandma, take the baby. No. Don’t take her she said. She can stay with me. But the red won and the new mother’s arms were left empty, white.
Had he always wanted this, she thought? Had he always wanted to see the bleeding, even from the beginning, or just since she held the perfect peach bliss in her arms which he could never hold the same. Was this red the trigger? The potential of silent blood letting? Did he silently watch and rage as the new love meant he would get less? All through the custody battle and after the divorce she had felt his need to watch her bleed again. This time not in silent bliss but in taking her pure white bundle and hurting both. He knew she would bleed for the bundle. And she bled. A little leak here and there, a spurt a time or two as she held on. But he seemed to wait, knowing that the pooling and gushing would eventually give him the red he looked for. Pay-back for discovering love in a little bundle was more than he could give and never getting enough from her or the little bundle to fill his gaping need. What color was his true bliss? This, she thought, this red, as her swollen eyes ached back at her.
Red again and again. Reactions to the red and more red. Any pause for peach bliss simply a replenishment for more red that he wants. The torture, the wrenching pain born through blood slowed, intermittent now and again, but still bleeding red. The soft peach returning too, briefly, but never as soft again, and closer to the red now as he pokes and waits.
Firstborn leaving
A quick glance at the mirror was reddish pink but seemed bloody. The swelling blood brought her back to the mirror. Red all through the eyes where the white usually contrasts, and red around the eyes where outlines of peach usually defined. The red puffed out from her face and shrank the size of her eyes and disappearing eyelashes. The red nose swelled more drippy distortion. There was no going on stage this night. No amount of make-up would hide the smear of the red she saw in the mirror. Loud now, but silent, building a scream. She opened her mouth but her throat clenched tight as she tasted the salty wet. There would be no pretty songs sung tonight. Singing would only make her wail red.
She needed someone to blame. Whose fault was this? His, yes. Always his. He will pay for this. But in the next dripping blink she saw in the mirror: No. This was her fault. The bleeding would have to come from what was already red blurring back at her. Her short cuts. Her allowing. Her buying fake-love. Her fault. She will bleed today, and had always, not him.
It was the red color that came from her 15 years ago in a state of blissful delirium as she embraced the red-wiped true love. What color was her bliss? Not red. Maybe a soft peach, but not red. Bliss born as the firstborn looked into her eyes, knowing. She saw peach then, not red. But it was red that was waiting, pooling, red to end the bliss.
They had left her alone then, 15 years ago, to coo in her soft peach bliss for a while. The home-birth was his idea, an idea she still believed in despite the hours of agony and risk. He left her and the bundle too. He needed food. Later the assistant returned, spun around fast, shouting. The red color warmed the blankets and seeped into the floor quietly as it left her face white and shrank her lips. She remembers mumbling, no, I’m fine, and the shock as the midwife’s big hand clawed her belly and yanked. As her body once again contracted against a malicious squeeze, two big needles stabbed into both tightened legs and shot the contented first-love peach embrace. She’s hemorrhaging, they said. Both big claws of the hag now wrenched on her tired womb. What are you doing to me? Stop the bleeding. Whispering, hurried bodies, phone calls. He came in, saw the blood. Grandma, take the baby. No. Don’t take her she said. She can stay with me. But the red won and the new mother’s arms were left empty, white.
Had he always wanted this, she thought? Had he always wanted to see the bleeding, even from the beginning, or just since she held the perfect peach bliss in her arms which he could never hold the same. Was this red the trigger? The potential of silent blood letting? Did he silently watch and rage as the new love meant he would get less? All through the custody battle and after the divorce she had felt his need to watch her bleed again. This time not in silent bliss but in taking her pure white bundle and hurting both. He knew she would bleed for the bundle. And she bled. A little leak here and there, a spurt a time or two as she held on. But he seemed to wait, knowing that the pooling and gushing would eventually give him the red he looked for. Pay-back for discovering love in a little bundle was more than he could give and never getting enough from her or the little bundle to fill his gaping need. What color was his true bliss? This, she thought, this red, as her swollen eyes ached back at her.
Red again and again. Reactions to the red and more red. Any pause for peach bliss simply a replenishment for more red that he wants. The torture, the wrenching pain born through blood slowed, intermittent now and again, but still bleeding red. The soft peach returning too, briefly, but never as soft again, and closer to the red now as he pokes and waits.
