Half the Sky (for R.) All she can see, with her left eye swollen shut, jaw wired. She sits on the hospital steps, trying to decide whether to spend the ten dollars in her purse on a taxi home or walk the sixteen blocks, her leg still not quite healed from the last time, ribs sore but not broken from his kicking. The cops say leave or you're dead meat, the counsellors say don't go back, but her kids want to go home. They're too old for the shelter. Tonight her face is as mottled as the evening sky, all purple and pink, and she knows once she gets home, he'll take the ten dollars or hock her wedding ring again. He's the only man she's lived with, ever since she left home at 13 and now, at 29, her hair falling out, nails bitten to the quick, her kids won't take sides, won't even call 911 if they think she started it. - Judith Krause From Half the Sky by Judith Krause. © Coteau Books 1995 / CANCOPY. Used by permission. |
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