I slurped from a bowl at the kitchen table; still in pajamas. My mother was digging through my scalp with a flat, black comb. Rebellion during the process was responded with only faster and supposedly more effective brush strokes, so I bit my lip and bared the induction. Bits of cereal chased the spoon as she raked my skull into organization. I tried not to wince with each stroke and could feel my back and legs begin to dance out from under the comb. I held my breath and pushed into the seat as involuntary whimpers came forth. Compliance was impossible and I lept from the chair clawing at the pain that radiated from my head. Mom snapped her finger, "Get over here, now!"
I appealed to her with humility and peaked eyebrows that indicated fear when in fact I was seething.
"It wouldn't hurt if you'd keep your head still."
I climbed into the chair, bowing as she hovered over me like a chimp. The pressure eased and the tempo slowed but my skin was sore from her first attempt so now even the light pressure was too much. However, I was grateful for the change she'd made so I did my best to stay quiet. I could feel noise begin to swell inside me and push against the boundaries of my body. Instead of letting it out, this time I fought to suppress it: a chore which proved to be still more painstaking than the combing process its self. My frown puckered into a tight gate. Mother had caught glance of my pruned face. "Don't you look at me like that!" and I retorted into my left shoulder muffled and inaudible.
"What did you say to me?"
I shielded myself from her volume and refused denied eye contact, "I didn't say anything."
"You better not lie to me or you're in for it."
I told her, "I said sorry," (I really said "I hate you") and a proud smirk climbed her jaw as she comenced grooming. Wind galloped into my chest until my eyelids dimmed at the crease. Mother bathed my crown with careful touch that felt more like a hand than a comb.
She wispered "I like those manners," and I grinned at the idea.
I appealed to her with humility and peaked eyebrows that indicated fear when in fact I was seething.
"It wouldn't hurt if you'd keep your head still."
I climbed into the chair, bowing as she hovered over me like a chimp. The pressure eased and the tempo slowed but my skin was sore from her first attempt so now even the light pressure was too much. However, I was grateful for the change she'd made so I did my best to stay quiet. I could feel noise begin to swell inside me and push against the boundaries of my body. Instead of letting it out, this time I fought to suppress it: a chore which proved to be still more painstaking than the combing process its self. My frown puckered into a tight gate. Mother had caught glance of my pruned face. "Don't you look at me like that!" and I retorted into my left shoulder muffled and inaudible.
"What did you say to me?"
I shielded myself from her volume and refused denied eye contact, "I didn't say anything."
"You better not lie to me or you're in for it."
I told her, "I said sorry," (I really said "I hate you") and a proud smirk climbed her jaw as she comenced grooming. Wind galloped into my chest until my eyelids dimmed at the crease. Mother bathed my crown with careful touch that felt more like a hand than a comb.
She wispered "I like those manners," and I grinned at the idea.
Last edited:
i was contemplating that as i read it.