BRUISED PETALS

l treated them like treasure. I held them up against the warm light, watching them shimmer for a second, before placing t

30 PM. I traced the

to myself, though the quiet fe

ite bathrobe. The room was silent, so silent I could hear the distant hum of

new every inch of my room, from the scratch on the mirror frame to the ba

em, soft careful footsteps approaching. Unhurried. Delibera

ime, I t

rew on my robe loosely, fingers tying the knot as the door cr

ame the whisper. S

n the same hushed ton

. empty. Her eyes glinted with something unreadable. She wore her satin nig

asked. The question didn't ne

Momma,"

sound of running water reached my ears from the bathroom. A faint flicking sound followed, scented cand

t move. I

stopped, I drifte

e hand, the other clutching my pink loofah. Rose-scented oil

, always too warm, but I didn't flinch. I never did. I sat

n't rough on purpose. That was the problem, this was care in her mind. This w

she p

hythm. I knew

the ones she usually used to pin her curls back when they drooped. She held

not in fear, but

ain. Opened the clips. And f

curled my toes beneath the water, eyes still on the marb

ame the

yes didn't even blink. I knew what she would

candles, and the

st a

n ano

he soft slope of my stomach. It burned, but n

scream. I d

t in pain," I thought. "Where I scream fo

. I hadn't for

'm not so no

my m

insane. Not

enough to turn a soothing bath

ng me something. Discipl

s teaching me

of the wax drip, each drop a quiet bea

owel, and said, "Your hair isn't braided dea" she said cares

dn't a

wax ha

water

she left, but It wasn't over just