Syrupy sweet, her drawling, “Oh
honey!” rotted through my teeth. Taking it upon herself, as an unqualified
psychologist, to make me feel better, Mrs. Green began extolling the virtues of
life. Bleach blonde curls bobbing, she pursed bubble-gum pink lips in judgment.
“Why, you’ve got your momma and school, and why, almost everything!” In the
window behind her, my supposed peers frolicked about, full of innocence and
life. Nobody sullied them, their mothers protected them; this I knew, as all
children do, good mothers protect you. Mrs. Green tried, but this woman, this
Southern Belle, could not understand. She had never seen what I had seen, or
been where I had been. A part of me knew she didn’t have answers or solutions.
Her cornflower blue eyes shined with naïveté and hope, I refused to destroy her
innocence. So I sat silent, in thrift store hand-me-downs, with a bruise on my
belly and two more on my back, watching her diamonds gleam.
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