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9

HATE & LACERATIONS

Before: Seraphine

The scent of beer and cigarettes hits my nose as I step into the beat-up trailer my uncle moved us into a few months ago.

He’s always on the move, mainly because no landlord will put up with his shit for long.

He’s passed out on the couch, the cigarette between his fingers still burning.

I stare at it for longer than I’d like to admit, wondering what would happen if I let it catch on the raggedy pillow his hand rests on. The butt burns orange, and my gaze zeros in on it, entranced as thoughts of it all stopping seem so alluring.

I could stop him.

I could stop crying.

I could stop hurting.

I bite my cheek, sighing.

I’m not ready for the world.

Goddamn him, I’m not ready to be without what he offers.

Other than building trauma, he keeps a roof over my head and food in my stomach—most of the time.

“Sera?” Uncle Isaac grumbles, waking up.

I breathe in deep, wishing like hell I had gone to my room instead of standing here fantasizing about him burning to ash.

“Yeah. I’m here. I just got home.”

“Good. Dinner needs to be cooked, and I threw up in the bathroom; I didn’t quite make it to the pot. Clean it up, will ya?” He puts out his cigarette on the side of the couch, and the fabric hisses before he turns over and drifts back to sleep. “Don’t get any bright ideas, Sera. Do as you’re told.”

Dropping my backpack from my right shoulder, I manage to keep the angry tears at bay. I make my way to the kitchen, trying to find anything to cook that’ll be even partially edible.

I find a can of Spam and a few eggs left. Spam sandwiches, it is.

While cooking, I clean up a few dishes and throw away all the beer bottles. I decide to clean his vomit before I eat, so I can keep the small amount of food down and not add to the mess.

It takes every morsel of strength that I have to take care of someone who promised to take care of me.

I don’t want to be the adult; I want to be the child.

Once the bathroom’s clean, I make Uncle Isaac’s plate first. Because I have to. Leaving only the smallest scraps for myself.

I wake him, handing him his plate, and waiting for him to say I can eat.

I stand beside him, my stomach chewing itself to bits as he watches his nightly sitcom, laughing, eating, and chugging more beer—that he doesn’t fucking need—wishing I was anywhere but here.

If only I’d been in that car with them…

I shake the thought away. Most of the time, I can stay strong, like I know they’d want me to, but sometimes, times like tonight, it’s hard.

Finally, Uncle Isaac sits back. “Fuck, I’m full. Any left?” he asks.

I nod. “A little bit.”