The room is going dark and the baby is in my arms. “I just wanna feed the baby,” he slurs in his thick alcohol laden voice. I don’t remember what happens next, maybe someone shows up in the nick of time, maybe he just leaves of his own accord. It’s a memory buried and it doesn’t want to be re-opened. I know I’m left jittery, shaking any time someone even slightly resembling Sam shows up at the fast food place where I work. I’ll remember the second time though, in a clarity so brilliant that it might be a film I can project any time, starting, stopping, rewinding.
Sam and I were a couple, tumultuous and angry in that raw-edged way only teenagers can be. Sam refuses to believe that he’s the father of our baby. I cheated on him, but it was several months too early for anyone to be the father but him. He’s bitter and makes me pay for it as often as possible. Sam spends nine months telling me I’m a whore, a no good slut. I hold his baby picture up next to the photo of our baby, identical save for the yellowish cast and the outdated clothing Sam’s mother is wearing. He still has doubts. I finally tire of the constant barrage and tell him to get lost. A couple months later, he appears at the foot of my bed and tries to kill me. Continue reading