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Maggie's Bloomers

Mark stood at the refrigerator, shoulders hunched over like an old man, desperate to disappear inside his six foot frame.

"Get out of my way, you little shit," Maggie screamed, taking a large swig of Whiskey.

It was no use arguing - he couldn't win. She despised her son and she enjoyed it: the bullying.

Maggie was an insufferable drunk. A continual stream of verbal castigation flowed from her mouth, like contaminated water. There was no escaping it. Sitting silently and still offered no protection. She had never laid a finger on Mark - It was worse than that. A daily abrasive lashing of words, that cut so deeply - leaving behind the kind of mark that never heals.

"Get the hell out of here, " she ordered. "I'm going out, and when I get back, I want you gone," she slurred, chucking him a couple of dollars. "Buy yourself a can of soda or summut," As if she gives a damn. Mark knew she was bringing HIM home: that useless waste of space, Fat Pete. She thought he was worth a few bucks; she was working him over.

The toilet flushed - she hitched up her skirt and snatched up her cheep handbag. Mark noticed - Should I tell her? he thought. He remained silent (just the way she liked him.) The front door slammed shut, she staggered along the road, her skirt tucked into her panties. Mark smiled - It was a small victory!

Story by:

Emma Truscott

7 June 2013