Gone Red

The can cracked open, and the bitter foam followed eagerly, fizzing over the tin brim, over his thick fingers. My face prickled from my sweat drenched bangs. His intense stare grew more hazy, as the golden brew painted crows feet by his dark eyes. A few cans later, I caught myself clutching my wrist, and let it go. I adjusted my dress and placed my hands neatly in my lap where they could pluck at the paper tablecloth. He became louder, and bumped into the table more often as the night drew on—toppling the tower of cans, and sending shivers through the silver cutlery. His face turned red, not tomato red, but red like when he was shouting his head off at people who cut him off in traffic. Red like when anyone asked something of him. Red when he told people what he had sacrificed for them. I swallowed hard.

I didn’t realize I hadn’t touched my food before my mother came into the room. I’m sure she didn’t mean to—her head was hanging as low as mine, but she managed to squeak out that I hadn’t touched my food. Later, when she sat on my bed and comforted me, placing an ice bag on my face, she told me as much. But that was after my father sent his massive hand flying across the table, only to land on my face, turning it red.

My ears rang as the mashed potatoes flew out of my mouth and onto the tablecloth with the newly torn border. My eyes were already wet as my face lit on fire. I’m glad I couldn’t hear what the sad man yelled at me. I can imagine his voice, full of anger and self-pity, spewing words like, “What am I spending all this money on food for? Ungrateful piece of shit!”—the usual.

I’m glad I have her, you know; my mother. Her fingers brushed lightly over the irritated skin, which I guessed would be black by morning. And guess what? I was right. I had to wear a 20’s shawl with big sunglasses the next day, looking like some kind of diva, and in my father’s opinion—well I guess I am one.

As the night darkened, I listened to the sharp sound of the cans landing on the dinner table. His slurred murmur faded into the background like the static on our old tv-box set. I knew what came next—the quiet apologies, the way his anger would melt into a high-pitched self-pity. But those words meant nothing anymore, not to me. I focused on my mother’s soft hum as she wiped the tears from my face. She kissed my forehead and tucked me in, whispering that tomorrow would be better. And maybe it would, but tonight the darkness felt endless. In the silence, I traced the shape of the bruise forming on my cheek and promised myself one thing:

I would never let his red become mine.