I'll Love You Out Loud
I'll Love You Out Loud
“Mommy, Mommy what’s wrong?” Why is Bobby and you crying?” A tiny girl asks.
Her mother, crouched down against one of the dirty walls in her room, is crying. Unsuccessfully trying to cover up her red face, she attempts to hush her daughter, fearing he will come after her next. “Go to your room sweetie.”
The child is stubborn and persistent, not wanting to leave her mum behind. “No! Tell me what’s happening!” She stomps her foot and tugs on her mother’s limp arm, trying to get her to stand.
The woman, stifles a sob, “No, honey. You need to leave the room.”
“BUT MOMMY, I want to know-” a hand flies over he mouth as her mother crashes the small girl to her body. The daughter doesn’t understand that she’s helping her, and begins to wriggle out of her weak grasp. “No mummee I wna ee wut apuning! Leh ee go! Leh ee GO!” her muffled voice is picked up and registered in his ears. His loud, heavy steps begin to stalk up the hallway and pursue into the reckless bedroom, making the fearful mother hold her child tighter. Which causes the girl to wail louder.
He grunts once he sees his ragged wife, trying to protect her daughter. His agitated state burns to heated anger, and he stomps over to her and pulls the toddler out of her grasp easily, much to his wife’s dismay and screams.
She looks up at him, the man she knows as her “daddy” and wraps her arms around his neck, trying to climb over his enormous shoulders and slide down his back and scamper away. She almost succeeds, falling only a few feet and landing funny. She gets up quickly and tried to run, but he’s got the back of her shirt, the worn material balled into his fist. She trips and lands on her face. He picks her tiny body up and looks in her face, “Get. The fuck. Out of my house.” he growls. His is pleading with him to let her go, she’s just a baby, but he ignores her cries. She doesn’t have any more energy to try to save her. He quickly picks her up and throws her down the stairs like a sack of rag doll. She screams, tears slipping out of her eyes and pain induced sobs racking her body. She can hear the door slam, and a loud crashing sound. She slowly and shakily stands up, tripping a few times and running to the safety of her room. Climbing into the bed and pulling the blankets over her head…squeezing her eyes shut…trying to ignore her mothers screams….trying to escape…trying to…trying to…
~~~
I look on in silence as the long wooden box is nailed shut, the hard slams jolting the makeshift casket as the hammer drills the pieces of metal into the light, rough wood. The contractor climbs into his bulldozer and begins to throw dirt onto the pathetic excuse for a proper eternal bed. I grimace. She deserved so much more than this. In an impulse act of disappointment on the workers sympathy, I swallow something in my throat and jump down into the grave.
The guy in the machine sees me and pauses, leans his thinning-haired head out the side and shouts in a harsh new york accent, [which is questionable because we‘re in California] “Wadda ya doin lady!? Get da fuck off! I’ve got a hundred of these to do by lunch and your sitting there isn’t gunna get em done! Hey, do you hear me? I said-”
I don’t hear him. I reach into my jacket pockets and feel around until I pull out a marker and begin to write:
Phyllis Marylou Hunter.
loving mother, wife, sister.
1954-2008
RIP
“Ya done yet?” he asks sarcastically. I scowl and get off, walk away. I cannot bear to watch this undeserving disrespect any longer. I get in my car, pull out into the road. Open the glove box and search for some money, and head for a gas station. I walk in, lull about until I find the over-the-counter meds. Aleve...Bayer…Tylenol…Aspirin. Just plain aspirin. I look up and out of the corner of my I can see the liquor isle. And I figure, to hell with it. I grab a bottle and head for the check out, setting my things up on the counter and pulling out a wad of cash.
“You look beat.” I hear a male raspy voice say. I look up, and the cashier’s looking at me with the oddest of expressions. I shake my head and look at the chipping counter top and he turns and scans my purchases. Curiosity gets the best of me and I slowly glance up. Everywhere I can see, arms, neck, hands, the guy is covered in tattoos. I always wanted a tattoo. His hair is shaggy and black, with a white streak a little off-centered, making him look like a skunk. He has his lip pierced, a silver ring running through on the left side.
“Twenty-two, forty-three.” I hand him the money. He puts the bills in and selects the right ones for my change. “So, what happened?” he asks as he hands me the difference.
“Why do you care?” I snap in a low voice.
“Eh,” he shrugs, “not sayin I do. Just, maybe I can help.” he grins.
“I doubt that.” I mutter and grab the bag and walk out, slamming my car door and revving the engine, popping open the bottle of pills and the top off the vodka bottle, and down it all.
Her mother, crouched down against one of the dirty walls in her room, is crying. Unsuccessfully trying to cover up her red face, she attempts to hush her daughter, fearing he will come after her next. “Go to your room sweetie.”
The child is stubborn and persistent, not wanting to leave her mum behind. “No! Tell me what’s happening!” She stomps her foot and tugs on her mother’s limp arm, trying to get her to stand.
The woman, stifles a sob, “No, honey. You need to leave the room.”
“BUT MOMMY, I want to know-” a hand flies over he mouth as her mother crashes the small girl to her body. The daughter doesn’t understand that she’s helping her, and begins to wriggle out of her weak grasp. “No mummee I wna ee wut apuning! Leh ee go! Leh ee GO!” her muffled voice is picked up and registered in his ears. His loud, heavy steps begin to stalk up the hallway and pursue into the reckless bedroom, making the fearful mother hold her child tighter. Which causes the girl to wail louder.
He grunts once he sees his ragged wife, trying to protect her daughter. His agitated state burns to heated anger, and he stomps over to her and pulls the toddler out of her grasp easily, much to his wife’s dismay and screams.
She looks up at him, the man she knows as her “daddy” and wraps her arms around his neck, trying to climb over his enormous shoulders and slide down his back and scamper away. She almost succeeds, falling only a few feet and landing funny. She gets up quickly and tried to run, but he’s got the back of her shirt, the worn material balled into his fist. She trips and lands on her face. He picks her tiny body up and looks in her face, “Get. The fuck. Out of my house.” he growls. His is pleading with him to let her go, she’s just a baby, but he ignores her cries. She doesn’t have any more energy to try to save her. He quickly picks her up and throws her down the stairs like a sack of rag doll. She screams, tears slipping out of her eyes and pain induced sobs racking her body. She can hear the door slam, and a loud crashing sound. She slowly and shakily stands up, tripping a few times and running to the safety of her room. Climbing into the bed and pulling the blankets over her head…squeezing her eyes shut…trying to ignore her mothers screams….trying to escape…trying to…trying to…
~~~
I look on in silence as the long wooden box is nailed shut, the hard slams jolting the makeshift casket as the hammer drills the pieces of metal into the light, rough wood. The contractor climbs into his bulldozer and begins to throw dirt onto the pathetic excuse for a proper eternal bed. I grimace. She deserved so much more than this. In an impulse act of disappointment on the workers sympathy, I swallow something in my throat and jump down into the grave.
The guy in the machine sees me and pauses, leans his thinning-haired head out the side and shouts in a harsh new york accent, [which is questionable because we‘re in California] “Wadda ya doin lady!? Get da fuck off! I’ve got a hundred of these to do by lunch and your sitting there isn’t gunna get em done! Hey, do you hear me? I said-”
I don’t hear him. I reach into my jacket pockets and feel around until I pull out a marker and begin to write:
Phyllis Marylou Hunter.
loving mother, wife, sister.
1954-2008
RIP
“Ya done yet?” he asks sarcastically. I scowl and get off, walk away. I cannot bear to watch this undeserving disrespect any longer. I get in my car, pull out into the road. Open the glove box and search for some money, and head for a gas station. I walk in, lull about until I find the over-the-counter meds. Aleve...Bayer…Tylenol…Aspirin. Just plain aspirin. I look up and out of the corner of my I can see the liquor isle. And I figure, to hell with it. I grab a bottle and head for the check out, setting my things up on the counter and pulling out a wad of cash.
“You look beat.” I hear a male raspy voice say. I look up, and the cashier’s looking at me with the oddest of expressions. I shake my head and look at the chipping counter top and he turns and scans my purchases. Curiosity gets the best of me and I slowly glance up. Everywhere I can see, arms, neck, hands, the guy is covered in tattoos. I always wanted a tattoo. His hair is shaggy and black, with a white streak a little off-centered, making him look like a skunk. He has his lip pierced, a silver ring running through on the left side.
“Twenty-two, forty-three.” I hand him the money. He puts the bills in and selects the right ones for my change. “So, what happened?” he asks as he hands me the difference.
“Why do you care?” I snap in a low voice.
“Eh,” he shrugs, “not sayin I do. Just, maybe I can help.” he grins.
“I doubt that.” I mutter and grab the bag and walk out, slamming my car door and revving the engine, popping open the bottle of pills and the top off the vodka bottle, and down it all.