Anger

It is all ruined, my story;
It is scattered all over the floor,
Soaked in beer
Spilled all over the white carpet.
My three-hundred-page manuscript
That I had spent two years working on,
Destroyed.
Who had done this?
Who had sabotaged my hard work?
My three-year-old son Damon is sitting in the corner
Of the room, his blue eyes wide in fear.
My control will not hold;
You did it.
I grab the child by his little arm.
You did it.
Did you do this, Damon?
"Mommy, it was an accident!"
Liar!
I cannot see through the red fog of drunken anger,
The crimson veil of fury clouding my vision.
Tell the truth! Tell the truth!
My nails dig into the flesh of his forearm,
My fingers easily meeting around it,
As I whirl him around to spank him.
Tell the truth, Damon.
You did it.
I hear a snap.
It is quiet, and yet loud to me;
I can feel the bone giving under the strength of my grip,
Breaking from the brute force.
But the sound is what tears me from the sea of red hot anger,
That sickening snap,
A sound like pencil lead breaking,
Or a stick broken over one knee;
It shoots through like an arrow,
But instead of letting in sunshine,
It lets in the dark clouds of shame and regret,
Horror at what I had done.
I broke his arm.
Damon;
Sweet, innocent, three-year-old Damon,
Whom I absolutely adore;
I broke his arm.
What had brought me to do this?
I watched his little face drain of color,
Going from the youthful flush of childhood
To a delicate, paper-white.
Oh God, oh dear God, what did I do?
He slumps to the floor, his arm at an odd angle.
Oh dear God, no!
What have I done?
No, no, no, no...
I hurt my own son...
No more alcohol, no more, no more...
I cradle my child in my arms, running to the phone to dial 911.
NO MORE...




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