Page 28 of Paint the Town, Dove
“No you don’t.”
Scarlett protested. “Yes. I do.” And threw a fistful of soil at me.
“Hey!” I gave her a little shove. She held my fingers to her bare arm. “What is –” I turned her arm over and saw a patch of fleshy skin, raw and red like her hair.
She yanked free and for the first time in a year, I saw Scarlett panic. “Don’t touch me!”
Fear.
I saw fear in her eyes.
The same fear I saw in my mom’s when Corban would slam the door at one in the morning.
When Corban would crack open a beer. And another, and another.
That fear that lingered beneath the smile she wore.
The one Scarlett was ashamed of wearing.
“Don’t –” She repeated, as if I were moving forward, coming at her like – like someone did…
Someone did this to her.
Someone did this to my Dove.
The thought was weird, jarring. It struck me like an electrode, zapping me straight.
My Dove.
Why did I call her that?
Mom was my Dove.
Mom said doves protect.
She protects me… doesn’t she?
She – she’s there for me.
[Not when Corban’s around.]
[Not when Corban’s yelling.]
[Notwhen Corban’s violent.]
[Not when Corban’s…]
[This is the first time Ryden experienced anxiety. At only eleven years old, the trauma had seeped into the tiny wells of safety he tried so hard to fill. He would come to write about it, in all his songs that you love, that you listen to. But now, Ryden is just a kid, who didn’t know if his mom was hurting him more than Corban was hurting her. After all, physical violence can be overlooked after someone weeds their way into your psyche. That… that hurts way more than a bruise. That’s a wish of pain.]
“Ryden!” A voice.
A distant voice.
No, no it was close.
There were hands on my shoulders, on my neck.
Her hands.
