Pictures of Childhood Part 2

My best friend and I drink pink champagne at 15, left over from New Year's. Dress up in black lace and white makeup, Violent Femmes screaming on the stereo. She throws up in my toilet as I hold her head in my hand, the way my mother used to do with me. My stepfather lingering outside my bedroom door. When my best friend and I emerge, the scent of beer on his breath. He leans in to kiss me on the mouth. She says nothing.

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I'm 9, playing in the yard. Mother yells at me through the window to come inside, but I won't listen. My stepfather has been drinking. He runs towards me, a strange flash and flurry of color, grabbing and lifting me by the leg, beating me in front of the neighbors. My dress hanging down and covering my face. Covering my tears and shame. My panties with the little pink flowers exposed for all to see. It's always like this. The sudden, terrifying, explosive rage out of nowhere. You’re never safe. Never know when it will come.

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13. I cry over boys on the TV, in the movies. Corey Feldman. Kirk Cameron. My father thinks it's Satan. My stepfather's heart like ice and stone. Cold, impenetrable. He still flies into drunken rages, his hand stinging as it flies across my bottom. Locks himself up with a beer and a porno in his room. There are strange glances, clandestine touches that dribble through the days. But nothing you can really pinpoint. I beg Mother to leave. You're a liar, she tells me. I never see it happen. I tell my father. You're lying, he says. How could you let your mother down like that? In the attic, endless copies of Playboy's and Hustler's, their lurid glow. Faceless girls erased by black bars.