Nicole Johnson

 

I took another sip from the mug.

The sound of liquid circled whistling waves inside the tunnel.

The colors were crystal now—

Beautiful orange hues that reflected bronze under the lit sky.

I held onto the cup and zoned out momentarily and traveled down memory lane.

My cheeks reddened the closer we got to the front of the house.

A family lived there and the neighbors overheard glass shattering and a woman screaming.

My hands clenched the mug as my mind pushed me closer inside.

She sounded angry, her voice bit into my mind.

The tiny hairs on my arms rose and I felt flushed.

I could hear the tiny cracks when she spoke.

He said nothing only blanched as her voice rose another octave.

He couldn’t hear what she was saying.

He was too busy trying to think of the next thing that he wanted to say.

He never tried to understand her.

She was a wounded lioness.

Her heart bled and he never wept.

Wounds reopened and scars never healed.

She refused to die this way— trapped inside a hell, completely void of life.

Little by little, I felt my body pulling away.

The weight within my chest lifted with ease as I searched through the debris.

I told myself I’d never go through that again.

With time, old wounds will heal.