Shattered Glass and Scraped-Up Knees
Bridget gripped the faucet with shaky hands and wrenched it on. Grabbing a glass from the drain board, she filled it and held it to her lips. Water trickled down the sides of her mouth and she swiped at the droplets furiously.
But really, what right did she have to be angry? She was the one who lured him in, who made it impossible for him to say no. At first she placed the responsibility on him—it was his marriage, after all, not hers—but she was beginning to realize the part she had in it: the part that kept her glued to him, no matter how he treated her.
She was finally growing tired of being his toy, there for his amusement whenever he had a moment away from the parts of his life that took precedence over her.
Still standing over the sink, glass in hand, she tried to focus on the world outside of her, of them. Her eyes traveled from the glass in her hand to the sink and outside the window above it. They fell on a group of children playing outside: four boys were roughhousing, playing what seemed to be a rougher version of tag. One would catch another, wrestle him down to the floor, and run away. The one on the floor would then get up and chase after the others until he caught one.
A few feet away was a little girl, sitting on the stoop of her house, watching with her chin in her hands. She looked delicate; her elbows rested on her knees to support the weight of her head, which seemed to be too much for her. A floral skirt fell daintily around her legs, which she kept tightly closed, her knees pressed together. On her right knee was a small scrape, scabbing over and nearly healed.
The girl watched for a short while before seeming to grow bored. She stood and approached the boys, who stopped their game and looked her over once. Upon asking them something, she was answered with snide laughs and shaking heads.
She was persistent, though; she continued to press the boys until they reluctantly accepted her into their game. She stood for a moment, watching them as they scattered around her, and then began to run.
A boy, one of the larger of the four, began to gain on her. He was easily several inches taller than her, with worn jeans and freshly scraped elbows. When he caught her, he barely hesitated before giving her the same treatment he had with the others: grabbing her by the shoulders and roughly pushing her down to her knees.
"You're it," the boy mouthed, a triumphant grin on his face. He then darted away, leaving the little girl on the floor, bleeding and biting back tears. Instead of quitting the game, she stood and ran after them.
Bridget's grip tightened on the glass. She wanted to help the little girl, to throw open the window and scream at the boys to be easier on her, but she would have to learn for herself.
As did she.
Letting the glass slip from her hands and shatter across the floor, she turned back toward the bedroom.