Something has triggered our migraine again and he needs to hide in the gloom. A cloth over fragile eyes.
I am not resting in the shadows because our two-year-old refuses to nap. He is wee, exempt from causing anything beyond a mere tumble of blocks.
A weak plea from the bedroom – “The blocks, shush.”
“Sweet Montana Sky,” I mutter, “we can’t even play quietly in our own house?”
The migraine enters the living room. It hovers darkly without its host, black.
Our son hides behind his easel.
“Where is my husband?” I demand.
With stilettos I step on this enemy, pin it to the carpet and spit in its caved-in face, “I’m warning you for the last time: Stay the fuck away from our family.”
I mash the headache flat, thrust the child in his car seat, drive two counties north, tack the fury to a telephone pole like a flyer for a missing cat, and let that migraine tatter in the rain, hoping someone else will tear the mess down, crumple, throw the damn thing away for good.
About the author:
Stefanie Freele is the author of the short story collection Feeding Strays (Lost Horse Press). Her fiction can also be found in lovely literary magazines such as Glimmer Train, The Pedestal Review, Vestal Review and Night Train. Stefanie is the Fiction Editor of the Los Angeles Review and has an MFA from the Whidbey Writers Workshop – Northwest Institute of Literary Arts. www.stefaniefreele.com
This is a short snap shot of a family in crisis. It works. No muss. No fuss.
Pretty confusing piece. Sounds like a family thats in some trouble. Gives off somewhat of a violent feel coming from the childs mother.
Way to treat the m-effer. I hear that.