A Short Story : A Story?

Decent Essays

The putrid purple of old bruises gleamed helplessly against the limpid replacements— it was all my fault. When you’re the middle child in a five-kid household, it’s not uncommon to be invisible most of the time. Older siblings and younger siblings join together which leaves you in the minority category. You get comfortable in the transparent safety net. However, there are times when the translucent mesh is snatched away, and you must transform into a better you that has a kaleidoscope of facets waiting to be carved out. This was one of those times. “Hi, we are from the Webb City Police Department; we were wondering if you could answer a few questions for us? It won’t take up much of your time, and then you can go back to class— okay?” a portly man said waving his notepad at a woman in a crisp pantsuit. My blood iced as her glacier orbs scanned my fidgeting, hoodie covered body. The woman nodded and scribbled in a notebook. 1, 2, 3, I breathed in time with the rough scratch of my nails against my flesh. 1… 2… 3… “Okay-” I started, but they had already launched into their incessant interrogation. Gradually, my barbed, perspiring hands transformed into the rhythmic flicking of a hair tie against my wrist. My iron spine melted into the burgundy, hospital modeled chair. Answers flew from my candid tongue: yes I’m 12, with my parents, we are building our house, in a vacation trailer…
“Has your mother and/or father ever hit you?” the woman blurted in smug superiority.
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