Not an accident, I bet.
Torn curtains are closed shut.
No one would ever guess that the town handyman lives here.
Seems he only repairs things in exchange for drinking money.
I fight back the tears.
It’s all too easy to envision little Mark in a soiled nappy.
Locked outside that door during a thunderstorm.
The scars on his back were made under this roof.
The blood in my veins runs cold.
I’m more determined than ever to be the rock that he needs.
His shoulders are stiff, his face pale.
That anxiety is unmistakable.
Removing the glasses, he turns to survey the remnants of his former life.
“Home sweet home,” he mutters.
The words fall from his tongue like acid.
I imagine a bruised teenage boy running past us to the end of the street.
“I know that fear tries to tell you otherwise, but it’shisturn to be scared.”
“His turn?”
“He lost power over you the minute you hitched a ride north.”
“In some ways, he did. Not in others.”
“Bet that piece of trash has been shitting himself, wondering if you'll ever be back.”
“As he fucking should,” Marco says through gritted teeth.
“And maybe he was always scared of you. Even as a baby.”
“I guess.”
“But you’ve already kicked his ass by not becoming him.”
I hold him in my arms for a moment, feeling his body ease.
“I could knock on the door for you,” I offer. “Just to see who’s home.”
He considers this.
But no, it needs to be him.
I remind myself that this is not my shadow to face.
