Buttons
The buttons flew to the ground in all possible directions. Some rolling, some twirling a little, and then falling flat. My eyes follow the one that ends up under the oven. Compared to the others, it had a record-breaking run.
Through the tears welling up in my eyes, I scan the kitchen for anything else to look at. Anything but him.
He is pacing back and forth, towering over me, still screaming. I can no longer hear him.
My heart races, and my face feels hot.
There is a whooshing sound in my ears. If I didn’t feel the cold kitchen floor under me, I would believe I was underwater.
My mind is a bystander, watching the train wreck of my thoughts.
It was the purple shirt, one of the nicest ones.
Purple. A good color for him.
I can’t believe he did that!
There is no way I am going to sew those buttons back on. Ever.
And then the whooshing and the thoughts all lurch to a stop.
Today he ripped his button-down shirt open, and not a single button stayed attached.
What is he going to do tomorrow?
Marie H. Anne, Mom, Twin Soul, Entrepreneur, Writer. Full of Gratitude. Boldly walking toward my dreams. I write memoirs, short stories, and auto-fiction about surviving violence and abuse and how amazing life has become despite and because of it.
