ny-mets-girl

 “Mom? Mum? Can I talk to you?” My voice quivered. Both of them looked up at me. Mom’s head was in Mum’s lap. Mum was slowly stroking her forehead, leaning down to kiss her forehead while still staring at me intently. A satanic bible was placed in Mum’s lap, the thin, withered pages torn in a few places from continued reading. “You know you can talk to us about anything,” Mom said, smiling, sitting up a bit straighter. She leaned over to kiss Mum, who kissed her back. I took a seat on the couch and pulled my knees up to my chin, staring down at my cuticles. Even for a guy, they were pretty nasty. I took

God told me to hold her. He didn't say; "closer than most" or "handle with care" After all, it is my profession to protect. But when I saw her, saw those bright blue eyes... ..and soft blond curls; I did it like He had said so anyway. They named her soul and called it love. But she was different, and they didn't like it. When she was five, her 'mama' tore that pretty blonde hair out by the roots and there was nothing I could do. Because she told me not to. At ten, her 'daddy' kicked her down the stairs and out onto the veranda. Because she was holding hands with a boy. I caught her as best I could... ...but I could not catch her shatter