I grasp for answers, gathering my scattered thoughts as I consider whether or not to bolt, to run, to finally hear my footsteps rain down upon the stairs as I escape.

I stand still.

His screams thunder through my skull. Threats of violence, threats to leave. No threat can be worse than the one I aim at myself: to survive this or die trying.

My field of vision is limited to his face an inch from mine, full of angry gnashing teeth and a flood of spittle as he yells.

I swallow, willing myself to hold back the tears. They drop without permission, run down my cheeks and splash on the battered hardwood floor.

I shake, clamping my hands over my ears as if that will protect me. All it does is funnel his screams into concentrated echoes, penetrating deeper into my soul.

And then he's done. Spent. He stomps away to slam out of the house with a final curse tossed at me, the parting blow.

I breathe, remove my hands from my ears and stretch my aching arms.

I walk to the bathroom and undress. Hot water needles my skin, the spray too sharp against my bruises. But pain means I am alive. The shower is a habit, an ingrained reflex, a ritual after every fight.

As if I can wash this off.

Challenge

Word Play: April NOT WEATHER

akitoyu

10 reads

No More Funnel Cakes

I bolt straight to the line snaking behind a small glass window with a sturdy white frame.

What about the roaring roller coasters, the thrilling white water splashes, and the spinning wheel of baskets you ask?

I am interested in none of it.

That's right. I go to amusement parks for nothing but their funnel cakes.

Now, before you say anything, you must understand. There’s just something about eating a funnel cake amidst cheering screams, bustling crowds and festive music that simply hits differently. It’s an experience that is sure to put me on cloud nine, even when my mood is buried six feet under.

Ah, I can see the powdered sugar getting scattered upon the crispy disk all the way from here. The line always moves astoundingly slow, but the shower of strawberry syrup is quite the show. I never cease to be thunderstruck by the flood of chocolate syrup that threatens to spill over the edge of the plate.

Sigh…

There are young children kicking up a storm in spite of their parents’ warning. That is quite the fit they are having…

Oh dear…

My heart drops and rain fills my soul as I realize the cause of the commotion. I can see the back of many heads, yet not even the ghost of a single funnel cake remains behind the big glass window with a sturdy white frame.