Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.15.164.218
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
When I first awoke in this hospital, they tell me I had stared straight ahead and never uttered a word. I was in shock for a while, but now Dr. Albright, the therapist assigned to me, tells me I am ok to leave here. I ought to be glad of that, but I feel only empty inside and so very lonely.

I have recalled the shot which was still ringing in my ears as I fled down the long lane away from the house. I knew I could not go back. In my mind was one thought: Escape. As I ran farther down the lane, adrenaline flooded my blood stream, and my brain, impelled by horror, screamed at my legs, “Move faster, faster. Don’t stop. Keep going.” Ugly mud was accumulating on my shoes and I had to kick them off just to keep running. Escape was my only thought. The mud squished between my toes and my brain kept screeching, “You can’t stop now. Don’t slow down.” I was so tired, running . . . running . . . 

Once I came out of my state of shock, Dr. Albright explained how I had been sedated when I was first brought in and how I had been unable to talk for another two days after that. Then he asked me, “Do you understand why you are here?”

“Yes,” I replied, and my lower lip started to tremble.

“A truck picked you up on the highway. They said you had run out in front of them screaming.”

I felt hot tears stinging my eyes. Why didn’t he just get to the point? I could not stand it being prolonged any longer. There was a pause and then. . . 

“My mother,” I croaked, “she is dead, right?”

“Yes, Lisa. I’m sorry.”

“My father killed my mother!” All my grief and the horror of it all poured out of me as tears steamed down my face. 

The doctor took me in his arms and rocked me gently back and forth. “You’ve had a rough time, Lisa,” he said. I looked up at his compassionate eyes and for the first time, I felt a sense of calmness.

After speaking with the authorities, I was given my new living arrangement. I will be sent to live with my Aunt Jessica. She claims to really want me but I believe she must feel guilty about what her brother did to my mother. She probably feels responsible for me. I can’t think of any other reason why she would want to take care of me after what I did to her brother.

I had to do it though. He was a horrible man.  When he fought with Mom, I would hide in my room, frozen with fear.  After he left the house, I’d come downstairs and see my mom often with welts on her body. I have overcome my guilt about what happened that night, but I’ll never forgive myself for all the nights I stayed in my room while he beat her, especially that night he finally killed her.

That night I heard my mom cry out and then the house was suddenly silent. I waited for the signal of him leaving, when I knew I could go downstairs to see my mother, but this night there was no slam of the door. I felt a strange dread as I descended the stairs to the hall.

I saw my dad kneeling over my mother with his gun. A huge bloody gash glistened on her forehead and I knew in an instant that her dear soul had departed. My father was cursing, “Get up, you damn woman.” He brought the gun down on her head for what must have been at least a second or third time.

“No!” I screamed. I grasped the gun from his hands with surprising ease. “Can’t you see she Is dead?”

“No she isn’t,” he proclaimed. “She is pretending as usual. The little whore. Maybe this time I have really taught her a lesson.”

“I hate you,” I screamed. “You’ve killed her. Can’t you see?”

He rose from the floor, eyes glaring into mine. “She deserved it. You shut your trap. Get to your room. I’ve got to think. This is an accident, you hear? An accident!”  A strange tone had crept into his voice.

“No,” I yelled. I found myself backing away from him, arms extended stiffly in front of me. I became aware of the gun’s trigger so cold against my finger.

My father’s face contorted in fury. With a threatening gesture, he stumbled toward me. “Why, you little. . .”

He never finished. I took one look at him and knew I had shot him dead. My mom’s blood was smeared on my fingers from clutching the gun that so recently had been brought down with terrible force on her delicate skull. My father’s eyes, still opened, stared dimly. A taste like fresh vomit went down my throat. Throwing the gun down, I ran toward the front door. I knew only that I had to escape, and I fled down the long lane, running. . . running. . .

Oct. 11, 2018 for the Fiction - October 2018 Writing Challenge - Poetry Contest
of Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required