It Was Only a Slap

The sharp smell of Vodka takes up all the room in the car as she picks me up.

Running into my home, screaming,

crying out for help from my sister in the shower.

My mother keeps repeating, “I'm gonna slap you,”

“I'm gonna slap you.”

And along with my response, “Do it,” just following my sister,

came a soft, fast slap with a coldness like that of a chilly February morning.

My Father calls 911.

With the same rushed nature,

My mother leaves the house for the night,

taking with her the insanity and aggression.

I feel almost calmed by the police officer’s presence.

Asking me to describe the cold, fast, soft nature of the slap.

“I'm really fine,” I tell them.

“It was only a slap.”

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