Bruised

I get more nervous

and I start shaking

as I get closer and closer

to the front of the line.

Will gently nudges me forward

and makes sure I keep moving.

He had gotten me

as close to the front as he could

so that I can get it over with.

But I would rather just not do it

at all.

There are only two people

between me and the family.

There's a churning feeling

in my stomach.

My feet feel numb.

My head feels hot.

I can't do this.

I try escaping

to the back of the line

but Will grabs my shoulders and keeps me in place.

"You can do this,"

he whispers to me, as though he can read my mind.

"They know it wasn't your fault.

It wasn't your fault."

I don't answer.

I see her parents first.

I haven't seen them

since the night we were all at the hospital.

That night they had rushed into the emergency room

in pajamas and messy hair and scared eyes.

Today they look even worse.

They look like they want to be here

even less than I am.

And I'm sure they do.

Their eyes are red and so are their noses.

Her dad has cuts on his cheeks from shaving.

His tie is crooked.

His shirt isn't buttoned properly.

His hair is uncombed.

He has shadows under his eyes,

so dark that they look like bruises.

Her mother, who usually looks so prim and proper,

looks unkempt.

Her hair is frizzy and bedraggled.

His lipstick is sloppy.

Her nail polish is chipped.

Her eyes have makeup smudges around them,

like bruises too.

She asks me if I'm okay.

But her voice is flat

and her lips are pressed together so tightly

that her mouth is just a thin line.

So I know she doesn't mean it.

She's just trying to be nice.

When she looks at me

I feel scared

because I know what she's thinking.

This is the girl

that killed my daughter.

I try not to think about it.

I try to push those thoughts to the very back of my mind.

But doing that

just makes me think of it even more.

I tell them both

in a whisper,

because that's as loud as I can speak,

"I'm sorry."

Her mom starts sobbing again

and her makeup runs down her cheeks even more

and her nose turns even redder.

She pulls me in close

until I'm smothered in her black clothing

and all I can smell is her flowery perfume.

I don't hug her back.

But she doesn't notice.

She says, "Oh, darling" a lot

and pats me on the back.

Then she leans back

and looks at me.

She brushes my hair behind my ear

and straightens the neck of my dress.

"At least you're all right,"

she says.

It's too hard

for me to tell

if she means it.

But I can't imagine that she does.

She hugs me

on last time

then she lets me go

and I move over feeling worse than before.

Author's Note

Please leave comments below and tell me what you think! Thanks for reading.
--theladygraceling