I am t h r e e

My mother has dropped my brother and I off at a lady’s house named Mercedes and I don’t know if that’s her first or last name. I can’t see the details of her face, just her legs and red voluminous wavy hair. I feel sick when I get dropped off.

I am three and my brother is two and there were rooms we weren’t supposed to go in. I don’t remember any toys or what we did except I think we jumped on the couch and tried to peer into the forbidden rooms.

One room is dark. But there is blue light coming from somewhere.

And I don’t know why no other children are with me.

I don’t know why I am in trouble.

I don’t know why the room seems both deathly silent and piercingly loud.

Something bad happened there, because we went several times, as part of a new routine. Then, abruptly, hastily, we stopped getting dropped off. I remember my mother being irritated or upset at Mercedes and when I asked why dozens of years later, my mother shutdown, brushing it off with I didn’t like her much.

I am three plus thirty-one, and my stomach can’t handle being in trouble.

I am silently screaming for help, silently crying, silently inside darkness.

2 thoughts on “Vomit

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