19

pinstripe sheets
Daisy Wright

I remember striped sheets. Pinstripes, not those thicker stripes, 
and they were white with a pretty blue (blue is my favorite color). 
His eyes had blue too; blue, green, brown. I knew them well, I loved 
them. I remember the glass on the dresser, almost empty but not 
quite, and that for a moment I felt almost annoyed by it. Why not 
finish it? What was I thinking about again?

Oh yes. I remember the light shining through the crack in the cur-
tains and creating a perfect spotlight on that slip of paper, the pink 
one with the feminine handwriting on it. Why did I hate that slip 
of paper? I remember a broken fingernail. I think it hurt. It was 
on my right hand, holding those white and blue pinstripe sheets in 
a strange, tight grip. Something was wrong. What was I thinking 
about again?

Oh yes. Hands. His hands were holding me. His lips were by my 
ear but what was he saying again? Oh yes. He loved me. I was his. I 
could never leave. Why did I think I could leave? I was his forever. I 
belonged to him. That didn't seem right.

I remember that those hands holding me tightened whenever I tried 
to move. I remember that I said no, but he didn't listen. I remember 
that I gave up because I'd been drinking, so I knew that it would 
never matter to anyone. I remember. I remember looking for some-
thing to hold on to as I suffered through it. I remember going numb 
and trying to forget before it was even over. I remember that he 
cried after. I didn't.

I remember striped sheets. Pinstripes, not those thicker stripes, and 
they were white with a pretty blue (blue is my favorite color). My 
bruises had blue in them too.