| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Carissa Halston, writer/director of Cleavage and co-founder of Aforementioned Productions is now 25 years old. Her work can be found in Unlikely Stories v1.0 , Open Wide Magazine, Fables, apt, Zygote in my Coffee and Underground Literary Adventures. She misses coffee. |
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| © 2007 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| Drawn |
| by Carissa Halston |
| My grandfather used to say a man dreams his own death just once in his life.
"How does he know which is his?" I asked. "He doesn't." I wondered if all the other deaths you dream are someone else's. I noticed the mark on my left ring finger the morning after Drew proposed. We were fifteen. I figured my finger was broken. I tugged it this way, stretched it that. It felt disconnected, so I rolled the nub around until I felt it connect with the socket and then pushed the bone through. I flexed and moved my fingers in unison. The left ring finger seemed remedial among the others. "Definitely broken," I said. The bruise crept toward my knuckle over the next few days. "What happened?" Drew asked when he saw it. "You did." He had grabbed my finger when he'd asked. "Marry me," he said. "You're crazy," I told him. I tried to take my hand back. He held it quick. "Say yes," he insisted. "Give me my hand." "You give me your hand." "Ha, ha." His grip became stronger. "You're hurting me," I said. "Then do it." "Marry you? Right now?" I nearly laughed in his face. "Just promise that we will someday." I wanted him to let go. "Alright, I promise." "I mean it," he said. "So do I! Now fucking let go!" "Okay." He held the base of one side of my finger with his own and the other side of my knuckle with his thumb. With all his might, he yanked it to the right. I yelled. He pulled my face to his. "I love you," he whispered. He had held me still so I couldn't speak. We lived downtown. We lived in the part of downtown most people ignored. People would know what was coming. No one said anything. You protect your own. Drew was a skinny kid. He was a rude, skinny, little prick. His Dad was in prison for dealing and for spousal abuse. Drew's Mom was a nice lady. A little off. She used to say that Drew's Dad was only trying to take care of them. Support them financially, any way he could. Drew would just repeat what his Mom said. He would fight as many kids who were willing to say rotten things to his face. Even girls. He put a bottle to a girl's neck and said something nasty that no one else heard. When he let her go and she backed away, she told him he'd regret that. Then she ran off. People in prison know people. Their families know people. Drew's Dad got it in prison because of Drew's behavior. Whether someone worked him over in the yard or the shower, I don't know. I didn't get a chance to ask Drew before he took off looking for trouble. He showed up on my doorstep. He bled everywhere. He cried. I watched him die. To this day, I can't make a fist with my left hand. My fingers bunch up. My fist is crooked, lopsided. I still dream about Drew. I see him and I know it's his fault. |
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| Feb. 2007 |
| 78 |