Get Up

I was a ball on the floor by the fridge,

shivering and shuddering

and wondering if it was all over

or if he had more fight in him.

It was navy dark outside

but the Sullivans were still in their garden,

drinking beers and playing backgammon,

making neighbourly noises.

I thought:

Why can’t my life be a bit more that,

a bit less this?

Less of him.

The Sullivans squealed.

Their new puppy yapped like it was being teased.

Delighted squeals.

Happy yapping.

My face throbbed –

a red hot pain too tender to touch,

bruised and swollen.

I lay on the lino

shaking,

aching,

watching his feet near my face

pace

up and down.

You aren’t hurt. Get up, he said.

But my body was a brick –

heavy and crumbling at the corners.

Get up, he said again,

and I wanted to,

staring at the dust and dried up pasta

underneath the oven.

All that hidden dirt.

I wanted to say, Help,

but didn’t.

I wanted to get up.

Before I got the chance he was

toeing my tummy with his trainer.

Are you OK, Allie? he said,

sounding surprised,

like he thought I was made of metal,

like he didn’t hear me whinny,

see

me

fall.

He sighed finally. I’m going to be late.

Clean up before you go to bed.

I tried to blink away the burning.

I tried to push away the pain.

It didn’t work. I couldn’t.