Ice Cream For My Bruises

September 28, 2011
It doesn’t take long to go numb; surprisingly quickly, actually. All you have to do is keep your eyes wide open and think about ice cream. The shockingly cold touch of the freezer, the sugary sweet scent that wafts up from the roughly textured waffle cone in your hands, the perpetual drip-drip-drip of melting cream…they block out all the other stuff. It works every time, even at school when everyone is staring and no one wants to say anything but I know they have already figured it all out and all I want is a double-scoop of chocolate on an extra-large waffle cone dipped in dark chocolate. And I smile like sprinkles, to show everyone that nothing’s wrong.

I keep my eyes open, because then it’s easier for me to think about ice cream. When I close them, all I can think about is the steady thump of hands on my face, the welts blossoming where leather meets skin, the tearing of clothes I had to work hard to pay for. The pounds of concealer I waste on removing proof of my wars every day. And I must wait until he gets up, until he takes a shower and leaves my broken and numb self to my own devices so that I can get ice cream. Chocolate. With sprinkles.

When he glowers at me like I’m a piece of rotten meat, I imagine his face is covered in millions of rainbow sprinkles, replacing the drunken stench that rolls of off him with the sticky sweet scent of sugar. I can almost taste the cold confection while he clambers on top of me, and pins my hands down until they bruise. I can almost be at Brent’s diner, quietly licking the cone and watching solemnly as the chocolate drips onto the tiled counter.

But at the moment, all I can picture is strawberry ice cream with way to much red dye in it. The dye overpowers the flavors, and fills my head with the smell of rusty copper. The strawberry ice cream refuses to repress its drippings to the counter; it drips over my skin and stains my clothes and makes me feel dizzy and weak and makes him laugh like the sadistic b****rd he is. And I try to imagine chocolate, but it’s really hard. Harder than usual, and I’m starting to feel the pain that takes control of my arms, my legs, the meetings of my thighs, and all I can think about is the persistent drip, drip, drip, of scarlet onto the wooden floor.





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