AMBER GLASS
By: Grace Nuce
“The bottle broke into pieces, the sweet brown liquid washing away the blood oozing from the cut on her wrist. She had to have three stitches. But that wasn’t her first scar, and it wouldn’t be her last” – Reyna Grande.
It was summer 2020 and my mom sat on a stack of weathered books all of which she got for under four dollars at various used bookstores. A cigarette placed between her fingers grew a half-inch-long bit of ash and it began to lean and give way. I watched as it slowly broke off and plopped into her open burgundy purse coating a number of miscellaneous items in a gray dust. Her purse held mail, cigarettes, debit cards, and cash, but it mostly was filled with junk and change. She didn’t give the ash in her purse any mention as she flipped the blond page in her latest scroungy paperback novel. I sat half in the shade and half in the sun, my sun-soaked leg began to sweat, and the brick patio started to irritate my skin. The brick hasn’t been cleaned in years and its grimy buildup irked my body. I quickly adjusted myself and wiped tiny sticks and rocks from my thigh and calf. They had left little impressions in my leg and I stared at them for a moment then adjusted my body back into a comfortable position.
I looked back at my mom, she had dropped the arm that was holding her book, now resting on her knee. She had paused to take a sip from her drink. She held a sweating 7/11 cup filled halfway with Diet Dr. Pepper; the straw was from Mc Donald’s and had seen better days. The top of it had been chewed to a flat slim rectangular opening. I do the same to my straws. I gazed back down at the arm that rested on her knee, her forearm exposed. There they were multiple white inch-long scars all positioned at different angles. They’re so pale and appear practically translucent. They never tan despite my mom having constantly tan arms.
The scars used to be harder for me to look at. The same way the bleach stains at the end of the driveway used to fill my stomach with lead. They’re the same shade as the scars, and they’re a perfect copy of the blood that she left there. And though Julia poured the bleach all over that area of the driveway only in the areas where the blood had pooled did the bleach stain it white.
I remember, my hand hovered, shaking over the phone which sat sturdy and upright. The brisk morning air blew in from the open back door and I shivered. It was the middle of July, but it felt like a bitter winter morning. I couldn’t grab the phone; I couldn’t take control and I certainly couldn’t make the call. Calling the cops is naturally scary but to make a call against my mom. The idea was insanity. I stood frozen but my mouth moved screaming threats to her, “I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna call!”
FINISH THIS STORY BY READING MORE…
in this year’s edition of the MOORPARK REVIEW.
