Faded Pedals by Rosa Johnson (classic fiction .TXT) 📖

She finished washing herself with little water. He had shut the water off before he went to work. Mister. She rinsed herself off, then, the towel. Blood spool everywhere. Gently, she washed the areas on her body where blood continuously oozed out the most, and areas that were the most bruised. He had gotten upset last night because she had forgotten to take out the trash. Nagging, he complained that his steak was not cooked as he had requested. Her eyes are swelling; her vagina is hurting- from the kicking of the boots. She touches there, that intimate area, knots, “ouch” she flinched as she felt the intense pain as she had examined the area that she had touch, but she dare not go out that door. She dare not look at that bed. She stands before the window, looking at the mountains, those mountains that have kept her from freedom, from feeling liberation. Disserted, abandoned, caged is what she whispered as she takes gauze and dab the area around her nose. Nose bleed she had told her nosey neighbor Irene just the other day as she had inquired what had happen to the bridge of her nose.
Breezes flow through the window of her shack, well heck; she thought “it’s not her shack, but mister’s shack",: her mate and her spouse. She takes the fresh air that is sanctified because of the breezes: freedom. He’s working, so he says, but she was enjoying the clean sheets, her face without whelp or disfigurement. Breezes blowing the little hair that’s on her head. it felt good, like the cascade of the mountains that she saw in those story books granny use to read to her ,and allowed her take a moment to see the illustrations. Peace, that’s what this moment of nature’s beauty reminds her of, the true living definition of peace.
Panic stirs within her bones, she felt her heart palpitating, racing. She began to perspiring profusely, with the onset of small droplets of tear drops: for Mister’s car had come up, immediate abrupt halting sound from the wheels shrieking, anxious, that’s what he is, it’s been too long, eight hours with our thorns of ridicule, skin under the pressure of his fist, the raping that makes climb back in my shell.
She was young. She cannot tell, but young. It was painful to know jer age, but not look her age. That’s what Mister reminds her of: pain, thorns, thistles, pins, pricks of porky pines, nails pressing in her back, which use to be her strength-her back, but not now, the blows and the tumultuous shoves against the stove, head banging, has sapped the strength right out of her.

I hear the boots, those boots that became my enemy four years ago, boots with steel to protect his toes, but wound my abdomen, my knees, my face, or my head; as he walk with a drag, he has fake hips, my pulse is pulsating at the sound of the rattling of the keys, and I can smell the scent of oil and sweat. I hurriedly gather my journal and tuck it deeply under the mattress, delete all my numbers from the cellphone, and text messages, take my rings and earrings off, and shut the window. The wind has stopped blowing. As I bring down the window shed, I see my reflection in the wall mirror and I have changed, who am I, look at my statue of defeat, why so much pain, wrinkles, blue and black marks are still visible, and my eyes look at the antique brass-bed, a simple standard sized bed, the spring’s sticks out even with the makeshift covers. I tried to hide them but they force their presence, to let me know I have no say about what happens there. There housed there, they are the emesis of my very being, my soul. I pull my underwear up. Glance again, and head to reheat his food, and pour his drink.

Publication Date: 10-11-2011

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