Sweat trickles right past his finger and I wonder if he can feel it. I doubt it, because he pushes harder, burying his nail into the soft of my spine.
It hurts. I don’t move.
“Whaddya think yer doin’?” His whisper is cruel, seething.
I sit silently, facing front. Inching so slightly. Hoping he won’t realize I’ve lessened the pressure of his poke.
“Think yer so smart, huh?” Push, push, push.
“Ya big suck…all goody two shoes.” Pffft…
His spit spray wets the back of my neck and I regret my ponytail instantly.
The kids are playing kickball on the gravel field. I sit on the grass, bagged lunch at my side. Left of the field, near the fence, there’s a dip. I position myself just right. I am almost invisible. I pick at my peanut butter covered crusts. Daydream about being anywhere else.
My eyes are closed.
When I open them, the red kickball is bouncing away, slowing to a roll at the edge of the grass. Stops at his feet.
For once, I have to take my glasses off so I can see. Takes me a few minutes to realize they’re cracked. My only pair.
The skin on my forehead is split open from hairline to nose bridge. We’ll mend it best we can, the Doctor tells me, but this is going to leave a scar. Copyright © 2013 The Wrought Writer