I slept next to the window because that's where my bed was and really I never considered moving it. I would listen to the house wind down and the doors close, then the silence. Then there would be waiting for the seconds to pass. The minutes, then the hours. The window tapping was probably the worst, except for the one time I forgot about my feet and I could very certainly swear they had been touched.
If I could guarantee my parents had fallen asleep I would make a run for the TV room. I'd bring a blanket to cover my feet and turn the TV on without the volume. Infomercials to fill my tiny little brain. Where do all the bad things go when the sun comes up? What box to they melt into and why is there nothing underneath my bed when I get my parents to look?
My grandmother said I needed to pray more, and so I did.
I would have my own rosary and feverishly hold on to the beads so I never lost track. I would murmur all the Hail Mary's and Our Fathers under my breath in perfect Spanish. I would pray for everyone on this planet who had no one else to pray for them but I never prayed the bad things away. Why would I leave that out?
I don't remember praying for the glass to stop breaking or for the bruises to cease. The mind of a child is molded by a plethora of things and people and events and moments. I can see where every bruise used to be and though it doesn't burn anymore, I know exactly where it used to.
"pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death"
I can feel the shards of glass and sometimes I feel like there's something at the window. The screaming manifests itself in neighbors and strangers but there's no longer a night-light in my bedroom.
There's this intense beauty in shadows; though you need light to cast them.
"Hail Mary, full of grace
the Lord is with you."
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