....Carmen felt the darkness engulfing her, and tried to hold her place in the light. She could not get from under Erica, her head trapped under Erica's head as she registered each blow that Pedro pounded into Erica's face. Carmen screamed and screamed Pedro's name, begging him to stop beating Erica, begging him to listen to her. Begging him to hear that he was hurting Carmen too, as Erica's pain echoed through Carmen's skull. The light moved further and further into shadows, as Carmen began to loose the battle to stay conscious. And just as the last pin size beam of light faded, Carmen saw the shadow of a raised bat above Erica, behind Pedro. In her darkness, she just barely registered the swing of that bat, and then Pedro fell on top of Erica, on top of her, knocking out her breath in one large explosion.
Carmen fought under Erica's and Pedro's weight, her words fighting to be heard as they were pressed back into her chest and mouth. "Help me! Help me! I can't breathe!" Carmen tried to push her need for air out of her chest and through her teeth. And then, finally, strong arms rolled Pedro from Erica's body, releasing Carmen. Carmen sat up, inhaling fresh air deep into her lungs. She could see that Celeste was sitting on the sidewalk, rocking Erica in her strong arms as Erica moaned in pain. Celeste was no longer holding the bat. It lay on the sidewalk next to Pedro. Carmen quickly kicked the bat with her feet, pushing it as far away from Pedro as she could. Oxygen flooded her lungs, and her breathe was filled with fear as she looked back and forth between Pedro's limp body, and Erica's ruined face. Erica's face was a mess. Blood and tears flowed from her mouth and nose, and bruises were rising in big hills and deep valleys on her cheeks, below her eyes, across her forehead and down the creases of her dimples onto her chin.
"Don't worry, sweet girl!" Celeste's voice rocked and soothed Erica as her moans and tears began to subside. Celeste's concerned eyes met Carmen's fear. "Are you o.k.?" Celeste asked. Carmen nodded as she scurried over to Celeste on her knees, and ran her hand over Erica's hair. "You o.k., Erica?", Carmen kissed the top of Erica's head. "Carmen! Carmen! Is he....dead?" Erica's fear road her whispered question. Carmen slowly crawled to where Pedro lay unconscious on the sidewalk. A ribbon of blood ran like a river down from the rising wound on the back of his head, to a growing pool of red on the grey concrete. Carmen cautiously reached for Pedro's hand, and felt for a pulse.
"Don't worry, sweet girl!" Celeste said over and over again to the rhythm of her gentle rocking, Erica pressed deep into her chest. The words were like a call without response, like the chorus of a hymn sung on Sunday mornings promising salvation. "Don't you worry about nothing, sweet girl! He's never going to hurt you again!"
Saturday, August 15, 2015
Saturday, August 8, 2015
"Thunderbird"
My posts follow the stories of many different story-lines involving several women in the Book Woman Club. If you are new to the club, or need to refresh your memory about the Thunderbird story-line.......you may want to read the following posts - 5-14-11, 7-8-11, 8-13-11, 5-26-12, 11-19-12 and 6-1-15. Enjoy!
It was like swimming with a concrete block tied to your leg...this waking. Each time she tried to reach consciousness, Thunderbird felt herself pulled back under the heavy darkness. She fought to find the light; her eyelids too heavy to open, her head expanding with each painful rhythmic throb, her nose trying to reach the air through a stale and cloying sweetness....was it Channel #5? She remembered the soft leather of a generous car seat, the turning of a key, a fist hitting her upside her head....Thunderbird's eyes flew open.
The room was dark, the moonlight that filtered in through lace curtains created shadows on the walls around her. She lay in the shade of a big four posted bed, a filmy canopy of mold-scented gauze surrounded her like a shroud. "Where am I?", Thunderbird's mind circled dizzily for an answer. "Glory "Amen" Johnson", came the answer. "Glory....hit me!" Thunderbird tried to sit up, but fell back as a wave of nausea hit her. She groaned, her hand cautiously rising to feel the lump that sat on the side of her head. "She hit me!" Thunderbird closed her eyes, breathing deeply to fight back the vomit that splashed in her stomach. What the hell was going on?
She opened her eyes again, taking in the peeling and torn floral wall paper, the hanging yellowed ceiling plaster, a thread-bare Victorian couch. An open closet door showcased ceiling to floor dresses, coats, hats, shoes. A wave of nausea hit her again, as Thunderbird's hand traveled from the lump on her head to the scratchy lace collar choking her neck. "What the....?" She threw back the heavy, mildewed quilt that covered her, and stared in bewilderment at the high necked - full-length flannel night dress that engulfed her from neck to ankles. "Where the hell are my clothes???" Thunderbird rose from the bed, attempting to swing her legs over the side. A thick black chain jerked her back, her legs forced open wide in an arch of pain!
"What? What?" WHAT?????
It was like swimming with a concrete block tied to your leg...this waking. Each time she tried to reach consciousness, Thunderbird felt herself pulled back under the heavy darkness. She fought to find the light; her eyelids too heavy to open, her head expanding with each painful rhythmic throb, her nose trying to reach the air through a stale and cloying sweetness....was it Channel #5? She remembered the soft leather of a generous car seat, the turning of a key, a fist hitting her upside her head....Thunderbird's eyes flew open.
The room was dark, the moonlight that filtered in through lace curtains created shadows on the walls around her. She lay in the shade of a big four posted bed, a filmy canopy of mold-scented gauze surrounded her like a shroud. "Where am I?", Thunderbird's mind circled dizzily for an answer. "Glory "Amen" Johnson", came the answer. "Glory....hit me!" Thunderbird tried to sit up, but fell back as a wave of nausea hit her. She groaned, her hand cautiously rising to feel the lump that sat on the side of her head. "She hit me!" Thunderbird closed her eyes, breathing deeply to fight back the vomit that splashed in her stomach. What the hell was going on?
She opened her eyes again, taking in the peeling and torn floral wall paper, the hanging yellowed ceiling plaster, a thread-bare Victorian couch. An open closet door showcased ceiling to floor dresses, coats, hats, shoes. A wave of nausea hit her again, as Thunderbird's hand traveled from the lump on her head to the scratchy lace collar choking her neck. "What the....?" She threw back the heavy, mildewed quilt that covered her, and stared in bewilderment at the high necked - full-length flannel night dress that engulfed her from neck to ankles. "Where the hell are my clothes???" Thunderbird rose from the bed, attempting to swing her legs over the side. A thick black chain jerked her back, her legs forced open wide in an arch of pain!
"What? What?" WHAT?????
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