A Secondary Source

“Honey, what’s happening to you is sick and wrong. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure someone pays dearly.”

“Ms. Ferris said that menstruation is a natural part of womanhood.”

“I think she’s lying to you.”

My father stood above my bed. My bedroom was the obvious safe harbor of a twelve year old girl. Five year old pink walls were slowly being covered by posters of The Clash as I was sure they were awesome. Later, when I had less time to convince myself that they were the greatest thing ever, I’d realize they were shit. However, I still like their posters so all and all it was a smart move

“But I like Ms. Ferris.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s incapable of lying. You’ve got to stop being so trusting Theresa.”

As I watched my father load the Colt Government he kept in my nightstand; I wondered if I had a normal life.

“Dad, don’t shoot Ms. Ferris.”

“Why not?”

“Because periods are a natural part of a woman’s life.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because Mom had them?”

“There’s my girl. Always find validation external of the original source.”

He put the gun back in my nightstand, palming the clip. He always had a test for me, something to make sure that I was thinking logically. I think he found solace in my rationality. As he left the room, he turned around to my window. I could see him staring at something.

“Do you see a large man holding a torch?”

“No Dad.”

“Oh well, I guess he’s not there.”

Some nights I wonder about that gun. On days when I’m feeling generous, I tend to believe that he kept it there as to have a soundboard before he did something bad. Other days, I think he just didn’t want to leave alone. I still have that gun.


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