All feedback welcome. Hopefully it doesn't suck too bad because that would ruin my writer's pride. I think its good...



“Tending to the past”, as Clifton called it. I find myself within her lyrics daily, searching for an answer while inhaling a long drag of the wispy smoke and chugging down another shot of vodka. The burning fizz blurs the past and morphs the present into something better than what it is, even if the blurry illusion of his tiny apartment room is all it can shroud my mind with. I groggily peel the bandages from my cheek. I rub the yellowed skin how Mama would have if she had been here—gently with every ounce of tenderness I can muster. One hand caresses my child face while the other twirls a small blade, a cigar tucked neatly between my fingers.

The clock reads 6:55; he gets home at 7:00pm. I stand and hobble my way to the mirror that hangs on the closet door, thankfully only a few steps away. I search my body for him. He is spotted down the most part of my body. Last week is now turning yellow; last night is a fresh shade of purple. I break my gaze away from him and I begin to look at me for the first time. I take my hand from my cheek and cup my breast. It’s the first time I’ve noticed them since they had finally started to swell. Three taps send me whirling dizzily around to face the door. The taps grow heavy, morphing into the heavy footsteps of a monster; each tap thrumming in rhythm to the wild drum within my ribcage. I grip the knife’s handle behind my back and shrug the two steps to the portable stove where the teakettle has begun a quiet song.

The door swings wide and I immediately hate it for letting him in. I tuck the knife beneath the stove; I won’t use it tonight. “What you doin in here, girl?” It takes me moments to register his question, and even longer to recover from the swipe of his palm. “I asked you a question, girl.” I fight back angry tears and answer in a feigned calm. “I’m making tea. I thought it would be nice to have some tea.” He shrugs and takes off his jacket, then his shirt, and his pants find their way to the pile as well. “Git over here,” he commands. I hesitate, the teakettle sings more loudly now. I would have told him that the tea would boil over if I didn’t tend to it right then, but I only have the chance to cry out as floor boards slap hard against my cheek, then he is over me.

He lies there resting for another go. I get up to silence the teakettle and the dream returns again. I stand over his buckled form as he cries out—the way I did when he first tainted my innocence—an empty teakettle in my palm, its cries hushed. His cries of agony awaken my dreamed state as I realize the reality of what I have just done. I cannot help but smile as his wails replace the teakettle’s song and he holds himself, curled in pain. He’ll never do me again.

I shrug the few steps back to the closet and catch a peek at someone standing in the mirror. I look different as a free girl. I finally look as if I were sixteen instead of a drug addicted slave to the man I once thought I’d loved. I throw open the closet door and grab my thickest coat and my snow boots. I leap over his bulging mass, struggling to keep my balance in my buzzed trance, and stagger out the door. I lean on the wall to keep my balance as I half sprin,t half tumble down the hall of look-alike, paint-chapped doors, and out into the cold embrace of the night.

Mama’s voice calls to me as I walk. I hadn’t spoken to her in so long, since I had moved in with Jim. Will she still remember me? Recognize me? Will she still love me? The last one strikes icy tears, but I keep on slugging through the three inches of snow, falling graciously light for this time of year in Michigan. As I preoccupy my mind from the cruel wind and crippling snow, with thoughts of going home, I remember a line from a Frost poem I once read: “I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.”

The snow creeps through my coat and begins to freeze off toes and fingers. I can no longer feel my coat rub against my skin; only the night air seeps in, threatening to freeze even the blood in my veins. The air begins to feel significantly colder as the buzz from the vodka fades. About three hours into my walk, only my legs keep moving, the rest of my body and my mind have completely shut down. I groggily duck into a McDonalds and slip into the bathroom. It’s much warmer than outside, so I find a corner in the largest stall where I curl up; quickly drifting into the first pleasant sleep I’ve had in over a year.

“Hey, you can’t stay here Ma’am.” The voice shatters my realm of dreams, startling me so badly that I immediately thrust my fist into someone’s face before attempting to race out of wherever I was; only my body is frozen stiff. Through my haze of sleep and hangover, I can make out the McDonald’s uniform he wears—I relax the slightest bit. “Dang, I just want to help. You don’t have to throw blind punches everywhere.” I squint to get a good look at him, but I’m unable to see his face with both his hands clasped to his bleeding nose. “It obviously wasn’t blind.” The slightest crack of a smiled peeks through his clasped hands. At least my sarcasm survived the cold.

I realize I’ve passed out again only after I awaken hours later to the sun shining through a bright window. My whole body throbs with the pain of defrost, but I’m immediately thankful for the heat that melts from the heater beside the bed. It takes me a moment before I am able to move well enough to find my way downstairs and into the kitchen where a heavy-set woman is cooking what smells like the best KFC in all of Michigan. She reminds me of the “Big Mama” type, which makes me feel much safer here than anywhere I’ve been in a long while.

The McDonald’s guy from before sees me first, and a large grin lights his face, the first smile I’d seen in what seems like forever. “Hey, you’re up. How ya feel?” he quickly seats me in a chair at the table. The woman, his mother I assume, sits a cup of tea before me. My stomach becomes uneasy. “Go ahead and drink up. It’ll make you feel better,” she says. I do not protest, but drink the hot liquid which seems to clear the haze in my mind almost instantly. She begins speaking before I finish my tea. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” I place my empty cup on the table and fix my gaze on it. “I’m Michelle,” I whisper, barely audible to myself. “I’m Caleb, and this is my mom, Grace.” The guy, Caleb, finally speaks up when I don’t say anything else. “Sweetie,” Grace calls me, “what were you doing sleep’n in that McDonalds? Are you running away from home?” I take a hard swallow before answering. “No Ma’am. I…” I pause uncomfortably. Grace places a hand on my shoulder. “You can tell me baby, don’t be afraid of Ol’ Grace.” With such simple words I feel as if I’ve made a life long friend. I continue my story. “I ran away from home a year ago, with Jim.” Tears suddenly rain down my bruised cheeks as the rest of my story bursts out into a sobbing slur.

“I just want to get back home.” I finally say. I hadn’t realized Caleb sitting beside me gently stroking my back. “Well baby,” Grace says, “why don’t you give your mama a call? Then Caleb can take you home. From what you tell me, it’s not terribly far from here, and you wouldn’t make it that far in all this snow.” I turn teary-eyed to Caleb who gives me his one-of-a-kind crooked grin and pulls his keys from his pocket, dangling them joyfully before me.

All too soon I’m throwing my arms around Grace, crying my thanks and goodbyes, and then I am in Caleb’s car driving home. “Can you go in with me?” I ask him when we arrive. He turns off his car and gives me his crooked grin as a response. We reach the front door, and I don’t realize how badly I’m shaking until Caleb pulls my hand into his. He leans in and settles a kiss on my freshly shampooed hair before knocking on the door. “You’ll be fine,” he whispers as a crooked smile stretches across his brown face. The door swings open, and I immediately love it for letting us in.