I carried her once... ***TRIGGER WARNING*****

I carried her once, from the kitchen to the bathroom, dragging her through the vomit she left in front of the sink. She smelled of anger and stale beer, her hair was matted reddish brown and puke. I tried to clean her up, running water in the tub, placing her gently there, hand cradling her head, laying it down, her bare breasts sagging became buoyant in the water that reached up to her chin. She’s a small woman, my mother, and she seemed so much smaller that night, she left most of herself in tears and wailing in front of the sink, after he ... Did... What he usually did... When the mood struck. She struck him back, but her tiny fists were no match for his muscular manner and muscular air he breathed in the dusty trailer where he kept us all. He left her lying there, half naked and wailing, drunk and cigarette dangling from her broken finger. She fought back that night. She fought back so hard he had marks on his chest for weeks after. Maybe it was the alcohol that slowed his healing, or maybe he was a rat bastard of a person and deserved an infection that hurt when he breathed or moved or just lived.

I took the wash rag over her small frame, trying not to wake her, trying to keep the water from her mouth, trying, trying to keep her alive. And I really don’t know why. Perhaps it was pure obligation, or perhaps I was hoping that at some point she would look at me taking care of her and she would understand that all I really wanted was for her to love me. Isn’t that what they are supposed to do? When you give birth to someone, isn’t YOUR obligation to simply love the life you created? And how can it be so easy to look at that little face looking up confused at you and strike them?

She moved her fingers in the water as the soap lingered in a pale haze, as the residue started to cling to her thin skin. She looked so old that night but she was only 30. She was 30 that night with four kids, three failed marriages, and years of scars trailing her that began with her father and her brothers. “I hate him so much, one day I’m going to kill him,” she whispered just before she threw up again. I turned on the shower, rinsed her off again, wrapped a towel around her, and put her to bed. I cleaned the bathroom because I knew neither would remember what happened and she would of course blame me or my older sister. I scrubbed away the remains, the last remaining bits of her womanhood down the drain and went to bed. At ten, I felt all the years of an old person. My body ached. “Yeah, I wish you would kill him one day, too.” How can that be ok for a ten year old to think that? How can it be ok to drag your mother to the bathroom to clean the unhappy stank from her body? How can it be ok to do that to a child?