CHILDHOOD — XENIA TAIGA
/Me:
five, six; frozen stiff in my chair. My heart is a beating, the eyes are big and then I'm blinded. The images burned, branded in my head. The fist. The angry face. Blood spraying from cracked lips. The torn skin, the ripped-eye socket. The skin shredding. The skin still shredding.
Me:
sitting in math class. My head empty, my stomach full of tatter tots and pink-slime chicken strips. The eyes drowsy. The classmates’ heads turning into little dots that I use to dot my papers and then those fists, that mouth, the angry face, the scream. I clasp my lips together. My muscles clench, my toes curl. Everything inside is pinching and strangling, till at the sound of the bell I release it all.
Me:
in the back yard looking at the dog. The white fluffy dog, the black and brown markings up and down his back. The silence of the hot afternoon. The dog whimpering. The adults laughing. The beating and beating till there is nothing left, but skin and some fur with mushy-red, pink stuff oozing like there is no tomorrow.
Me:
at the bank. Five ahead of us. The clock ticking. The time slipping. The anger growing and then the fists, the beatings, the ripped-eye socket, the bloody chains, the saws, the clanking and slashing. The hands tightening. The ideas. My mother looks at me, frowning. No, I wouldn’t do anything, mama. I’d just watch. I’d say it’s for fun and later ask her for a manicure, then I’ll ask dad to play paintball so we can go BAM! BOOM! You’re dead! Then I’ll tell YOU to wait because you’re next.
Xenia Taiga lives in southern China with a cockatiel and an Englishman. http://xeniataiga.com/
