Bret

    I put my hands under the runnin’ water, reached up and wiped the fog from the mirror over the sink. I looked at the crud in the tub and around the drain, the sink plug hung from the faucet. I looked in the mirror at the wall behind me. I’d punched that wall plenty times, kicked it, stabbed it once. It’s still fuckin’ standin’, but only ‘cause I fix it. I patch it every time. I clean and paint it white. I keep paint and caulk under the sink ‘cause I know I’m a hit it again. All the other walls got half-fingerprints in dirt and so do the tiled floor in the bathroom and open kitchen. I broke my knuckles killin’ that wall. I went to emergency and they told me to take this medicine and wrapped my hand. That was three days ago, I still got the thing on, and I ain’t takin’ no medicine. It don’t hurt no more, I’m used to it. Mark always make me do that, he pisses me off. So I punch, and hard. I kick waist high and my foot went through it once. I got cuts on my elbows and knees from strikin’.          

    I let the water keep runnin’ on my hands and the wrap, it’s hot, but I don’t burn easy. I don’t bruise easy either. But one time, Mark burned me. We was alone on the couch out front by the window, ‘cause we ain’t got no television, like we always do when I ain’t got work. We was drinkin’ Scotch and smokin’ some skinny whites some years ago. I was lookin’ at the people in the apartment ‘cross the street kissin’ and grabbin’ while Mark was high on some codeine slouchin’ in the couch with his legs wide open, one up on a stack of two milk crates tryin’ to catch a breeze, no shirt. The hair on his round belly ran from inside his shorts to his chest. I only took a lil’ swig of codeine, but I was fine. He was sayin’ somethin’, but so low that I could only see his lips movin’ from the corner of my eye. I looked at my cat, Snowball, a black cat, stretch out on the window ledge.
         “Air them tits out girl—” I said.
         Snowball opened one eye, barely looked over and closed it back, ignorin’ me.
         “I hate that lil’ shit,” I said lookin’ back at the couple through they window.
         “Them down there or…cat?” asked Mark, barely liftin’ his lazy wrist pointin’ to the Scotch on the floor and the plastic cups, but he meant the couple ‘cross the way.
         “Cat…turn that fan up,” I said.
         “Your cat-” he let out a slow breath, turned his head to me, bottom lip droopin’, and his hand slipped into his shorts.
         “Hand me one of them,” I said, and tossed my deep voice to the fan.
         He reached over and picked up one of the skinny whites we rolled earlier and he flicked it at me. It landed on my joggies’ after hittin’ my chest and fallin’ straight down. Mark liked flickin’ stuff when he was high, it ain’t bother me.
         “Shit— why is it so fuckin’ hot?” I said as I grabbed the lil’ thing from my lap, “give me a light, jackass.”
         Mark dug down into the couch, under the seat cushion. He pulled out a porn mag with naked women touchin’ they snatches, a broken lighter, a few beer caps, and pushed it all onto the gritty carpet and then finally a book of matches. He wiped his hand on his shorts. He picked a match out. I held the skinny between my lips and leaned to him. He swept the match once and it ain’t light, and then again. The third time it lit, and big. He brought it to my skinny, flame up. He held the light at the tip of the skinny and then moved the flame closer to my face. He’d done this before, “screwin’ the skinny,” he’d usually call it. Slow, he moved it closer, and then pulled it back.
         “Stop it-” I got out as I balanced the skinny and tried to catch the flame. He just grinned and kept slidin’ the light back and forth.
         He slid it faster. I kept tryin’ to inhale to catch it. The match was gettin’ smaller and it was ‘bout to burn the tip of his middle finger and thumb. He kept slidin’ the match closer and closer, “stop it jackass!” I said louder.
He flicked the fire at my face. I pulled back, but it still hit me on my bottom lip and it stung. I yanked back again and slapped his fuckin’ hand.
         “I stopped,” he said calmly.
         I wanted to reach over and stuff my fist in his fuckin’ mouth, like I did my dad when he tried to treat me like he treated Anna, my mother, some time ago. I held back— just tightenin’ my hand up into a brick ball. Mark just looked at me lazy-eyed and then down at the Scotch again. I touched my lip and felt a blister comin’. It was the size of a dime, but skinny. I still got that damn scar on my face; it’s skinnier now, but longer. It start at my lip and end at the bottom of my chin. Later that night when Mark was workin’ graveyard at his security job, I went into his jar that he keep money in up in his closet. It ain’t much, but it’s something. I ain’t care— he ain’t ever look in that jar no way. I’d taken money before, plenty times, but not too much just in case he did.