Sleeping in the Sitting Room

I am six when I enter the sitting room late at night to find my parents. I have a pain in my ear. Or perhaps it is my tooth. I cannot articulate where the pain is. Or even what it is. It is a new sensation. Not one I want again. It is making me cry. I am. Crying. I am. All pain. All ear. All tooth. The room is spinning. My parents are cross after a time when their consoling is making no difference to my whimper. Bex. A bed is made up in the sitting room so I can be close to them. Perhaps this will make the pain go away. Away. Bex is crushed and mixed in strawberry jam. A teaspoon big in front of my face. Open. Open. Open wide. Eat it. Drink it. Swallow it. Lying on my side I feel a throbbing. Being close to them is not helping. Darkness helps. Close my eyes. Head deep in the made up bed. Close to the floor. Close enough to place a palm on the floor. Feel their footsteps through the wood. Come and go. A palm on my forehead. A flannel. Whispers.

 

One Reply to “Sleeping in the Sitting Room”

  1. 16. The crunching sound was sickening. A large middle aged gorilla had flattened me in a social football match. The nausea was in that sound. I couldn’t lift my arm to take the footy jumper off. My shoulderblade was fractured.

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