Thread: Bruise - A Short Story

Bruise

It is autumn, and everywhere the leaves on the trees are changing, all red and gold and brown. It is beautiful. You are sitting outside on your front porch, and you are alone. You are outside because you do not like being inside by yourself. You are by yourself because your mother and father are both gone. They are out working; they will be home soon. They tell you that you are too old to be so afraid of being by yourself, but you don't like the way that the creaking of the walls and the wind against the windows breaks the silence of that solitude, or how when you're by yourself you sometimes think about all of the things that could happen to your mother and father when they are away, like if they got into a car accident or were robbed and shot or if one of them had a heart attack or a stroke. It is childish thinking, you know, but when you're outside at least you aren't so prone to such dark thinking. Outside, you can focus on the sounds of the wind whistling free though the air, or the orange sherbet glow of twilight, or the leaves, all red and gold and brown. So you wait outside. You do not mind. There is someone else you are expecting.



She rounds the corner of the main road, as she does every afternoon. You wave hello. She seems not to notice. You wonder what is wrong. You have had crushes before, but you've never liked someone so much as this. You constantly think of the way the sunlight shines in her auburn hair, the way she smiles when you pass her by at school. You see her walking by and all of your ridiculous fears and childish notions are whisked off to somewhere far away. You look her, and you believe you are in love.



"Hello", you say as you walk up to greet her. She tells you hello, and she keeps walking. Something must be wrong, you think. You trot up to meet her as she crosses the street to where she lives. "How are you doing?" you ask, and she says that she is fine, but she does not stop. You say: "Is everything alright"? Still she does not turn. You're approaching her door, so you go to see her face, and that is when you catch it.



She stops at last, and she faces you. You've never been this close to her before. You can smell the sweat clinging to her temples, see the freckles dotting the skin just above her breasts, like thumbtacks marking cities on a map of the world. You see her eye, swollen and bruised like a ripened plum. There are spots smeared with faint streaks of cream, like she tried to cover it up with makeup, but something washed it away.



"Oh", you say. She smiles wanly and says that she fell. You know this is a lie. This is what someone in a movie would say. You ask: "Who did it?" She casts her eyes downward and turns to her door. "Wait", you say. She tells you that she is sorry but she cannot. You ask: "Was it your dad?" and she says nothing. You say: "Was it someone else?" and she answers in silence still. You say: "Was it someone that you are with?" and her eyes meet yours for an instant, and you think you know. You look into these eyes that you have loved for so long, one so swollen, the other so shapely. It is a cruel dichotomy. You see in her the gaze of someone who believes without a doubt that they are alone. Inside, the phone rings. She says that she is sorry, but she really has to go.



This is what you want: You want to trace your finger along the curve of her swollen cheek and tell her that you have loved her for so long, that you sometimes sigh and wish that the wind that whispered in your ear at night was her voice, and that the sweat that clung to your body between the silk of your sheets was her skin. You want to tell her she is not alone. This is what you say:



"Alright then. Goodnight." She smiles again, faint and broken and beautiful. The phone rings again. She shuts the door as you turn and walk away. You can still hear her inside. This is what she says:

"Yes? Yes, hello. I was late. I know. I'm sorry. No, I won’t forget again. Will you come over tonight? I love you. No, nobody asked about it. I covered it up. Yes, everything's alright. It's okay. I'm not angry. I love you. Will you be over tonight? I need you here. I just need to…"



You return to the porch. As her voice trails off in the distance you think of her, of her bruise, of how she spoke so softly to whomever it was that had hurt her. You think of your mother and father. You wonder if they will be home soon. You wonder if they are safe. You wonder how old you will be when you are no longer afraid of being alone.



As you wait you watch the breeze blow through the leaves, all red and gold and brown. You watch as a leaf is plucked from its branch by the wind, as it tumbles and somersaults through the air, as it careens down the sidewalk, across the concrete road, as it flings itself into a drain and is carried away by the sewer.