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Battered Seasons

Summer began with your fist in my face. And then you blinked. And I blinked. And our past flashed before our eyes. The yelling, the swearing, the hitting tangled with the loving, the dancing, the laughing. All fond memories crushed as weak stones within your grasp. And molded into your rage all because I wanted the good of you from the bad of you. Remember when we went to church in the fall and the holy water burned at your forehead because you were a bad man? Remember the counselor we visited in winter and you laughed at her insignificance because she thought you a bad man? Remember our friends and family in spring when we asked if they could draw pictures of you only to have those pictures presented as blank canvases because they felt you were not worth the paint because they thought you a bad man? Yet, all along, I thought you a good man. How was that possible? What was it that they saw that I didn't see? It wasn't until I looked in the mirror and caught reflections of you beating me had I then packed my things only to have left those things to walk out of my life with nothing but unclothed bruises. I figured if I could heal elsewhere I could rebuild our life. But it was to late. Summer ended with death in my face.

Story by:

Devlin De La Chapa

submitted at 7:51pm

31 July 2011

Devlin De La Chapa's web: