The Angry Birth (Pain)
by M. Taggart, Monthly Contributor
He stared at the same imperfections in the sheetrock
each time he passed them. The studio apartment was
long enough for him to walk eight full footsteps, twelve
if he entered his bedroom, before turning around.
He no longer rocked in bed. Pacing was exercise.
He didn’t want to sit on the deck. Couldn’t. If he did
He’d go back to pacing and if he paced too long he’d
need to shower. If he showered he wouldn’t be able to
pace again because he’d think about the difference
between being too uncomfortable to sit on the deck
and too unhealthy to smile in his mirror. That was it.
The damn mirror telling him exactly what had happened
and how trust was a matter of falsehoods because there
is no trust, especially within a union. Family structure
built on lies. Knowing fully what took place was a
freedom given to himself from hell. He finally spoke it,
out loud, and with that it became reality for the first
time. No relationships. No content feelings. Only pacing,
reviewing imperfections thousands of times, habitual
shaming practices, and self-pity. But, damn, don’t I look
good in the mirror as long as I don’t open my mouth.
‘The sheetrock wasn’t that bad, really. It can stay like
that for another fifty years,’ he thought. ‘How could
anyone hurt a child? How?’ He reached into the
refrigerator for his fourteenth beer
Gabriela Marie Milton
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