I rolled the golden nuggets around, deciding which to stab first. I knew the moment I sat down and saw the plate of my favorites, that she was buttering me up for something. I just had no idea it would ruin my life. The food soured in my stomach.
The fork pounded the plate as it punctured the chicken. It was childish, I knew, but it kept me from hurling the food across the table at my mom.
How could they do this to me?
My mom lowered her napkin. “Alexis honey, do you want to talk about it?”
I met her gaze coolly. “Do I want to talk about it? I thought we did talk about it last month when you told me we were moving. Three months, Mom, that’s what you and Dad said. That meant winter break, not this weekend.” My teeth hurt from clenching, but I knew the moment I released, tears would fall. I refused to give her that satisfaction.
I focused on the wall behind her, finding the corner where the paisley wallpaper peeled, revealing the older apple design. Bad idea.
I never understood why they hadn’t fixed it, everything else in our home stayed polished with an appearance of perfection. That one imperfection accused me. I brushed my blonde hair out of my eyes in reflex, pausing at the scar’s indentation. It had been almost seven years now, but still when I saw the torn pattern, I remembered how quickly freedom could be replaced with rules and limits.
Apparently, I was there again, feeling like an imprisoned child. My life changed in an instant without my knowledge or consent. Only this time the wound felt too big to be stitched.
-Copyright Kirstin Pulioff 2014