Elder Abuse

He sits quietly in the corner of the room and dabs his face removing the blood that still gently trickles down his cheek. Flinching from the pain he tries to be more careful. He wants to ask but doesn’t dare, so he wonders, What did I do wrong? Running his trembling fingers through his grey hair, he remembers, I only wanted a glass of milk. She grabs a rag and starts cleaning off the counter. As she wipes down the cupboard she is still cursing under her breath. “Why did we have to take him, we can’t go out anymore because we’re stuck here with this eighty five year old man who can’t even pour himself a glass of milk without spilling it. With that she throws the rag loudly in the sink. He wants to get up and go to his room, but he’s afraid. It didn’t used to be like this, she used to laugh with me and we’d talk about when mom was still alive. How many times we took the children so they could go away. Now she doesn’t even look at me anymore without frowning. Maybe if I just sit here quietly she’ll forget about me. Maybe if……. Oh no, here she comes. She puts her hands on her hips and as if he was five years old she scolded him over and over again. She’s so tired of telling the old man the same things, but he just doesn’t get it. She asks herself why the father she loved so much had to go and get Alzheimer. She notices how he’s shying away and protecting his head with his arms. He runs into his room afraid she could slap him again, thankful that his door still has a lock. He hears her yell, “Just ask me when you want something.” He stands leaning on his door and slowly he slides to the floor where he curls in a ball. Glancing around the strange room, tears fog his eyes as he asks, “Where am I?" Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 12.14.2014 Cyndi MacMillan Contest Name I CAN'T BREATHE: A peaceful Protest, An Anthology of Powerful Poems