The words over at Three Word Wednesday are pulse, shard and weary.
I awake to the sounds of women, wailing.
There’s a gauzy sheet pulled over me, soft and ticklish on my cheeks as I rise.
The wailing is coming from the hallway. My father stands in front of the closed door, a handkerchief in his hand. His eyes are red from crying.
“You fucking kid,” he says, throwing a work boot into the solid wood that rattles the hinges.
You’d think someone died or something.
I turn and in my bed is a sheet-draped corpse; a soft outline in white.
At first, I laugh. Then I jab a couple fingers into my neck, feel for a pulse.
And watch as my brother walks out of the bathroom with a bloodied plastic grocery sack. Shards of glass have punctured the bag and he’s got the whole thing resting on one of my good towels.
“Dad, I’ve got things cleaned up pretty well in there,” he says. “I know mom’s going to make the final inspection. I’m going to need a bucket or something for all this glass.”
My dad nods slowly, but doesn’t move.
All of a sudden, I feel weary as hell. And notice the cold, which cuts to the bone.
There’s fear, too, as realization begins to paint hues across my missing memory.
Good God, what have I gone and done?