Owned By You

mer

f metal and cheap liquor. I breathe shallow, feeling the ache that lives in my bones after last night.

the empty room. My voice sounds

ckroaches scatter whenever I move. The walls are thin; I can hear everything outside, people coughing, someone beating a tin pot, the low

ell of morning hits me, smoke, fried oil, wet dust. People poke their heads out. A child yells, then stops. A woman watches

e. A high, scared vo

me, please!

the child's mouth raw and br

the small boy's shoulder, the other lifted. The boy's face is wet with tears, and fear. His lip

ees me. For a moment I feel the whole alley watching, waiting to see what I'll do. There is a sma

hit him. "Summer," he sneer

them slow. My steps make th

he child stumbles. The boy cries out. My hands tighten into fists at my side. I can f

I'll break your arm,"

a high, thin sound.

, grab the man's wrist. He pulls away and jabs at my face. I take the hit on my cheek. Pain fires sharp and quick; I taste blood at th

me!" he

ff him!" I

pushed too many times. He swings a bottle; it misses. I duck, and his elbow cracks into the wooden post. He roars and charges.

hurting him!"

watching with wide, scared eyes, his small hands pressed to his che

is face red, sweat running into the grime on his temples. He spits and swings at my head. I catch his wrist again, then my knee

ve him alone. Tell anyone you got business with

the anger before. He reaches for a pocket and pulls out a scrap of pap

, small like the boy

"And when you come back, I'll fi

rrying a beating inside his skin. People start to breathe again. Someone whistles low. The boy comes

s. He licks his lips. "My

l him. "If he comes back, scream.

ittle weight of him against my jeans and something hot and sharp hits behi

eed to say something kind and bec

yourself in trouble!" Her voice is worried but also full of

urt from the fight. My knuckles throb. People mutter. A little boy tosses a half-eaten bread roll at m

ing up behind me. "You all

lat. I force a grin that tastes

y cheek. "You nee

t humor. "And a doctor wou

k," she says, checking a small cl

here sweat dried. I pull my sweater tighter. "I'll be there." I

r. I'm halfway inside when my phone buzzes, old, cracked s

s short and sharp o

fore I thin

en, like he's counting coins. "L

he shift at the club. The extra money. My mouth is

uch?"

ree hours. Midnight. B

to make my voice st

. "Good. Don't m

ng one another, women washing clothes, a man yelling about a missing rooster. My house creaks behin

a low drum, the dark part of me ticks and waits. It's not proud, that part, it's honest. It is the part that kept the man from breaking that b

weat and old smoke. I tie my hair up quickly, wipe my face with the r

ht, but I ignore it. I don't head toward the club. I walk the other way, down the muddy road that leads to the hospital

nough to make me nervous. I always feel out of place here, like the d

s, some crying, some silent. I nod at the nurse who already knows me. "

ost in the white sheets. Her hair, once black and thick, now looks dull and spa

, her voice weak b

sit on the edge of her bed. She reaches out and touches

r?" she asks, frowning. "Nothing

r tone sharpens for a second. She sighs.

y. "Someon

l of both worry and sadness. "You don

to tell her that being strong is

hing nicer next time you come here," she says. "Look at your clothes, full of

rely have time to eat, and

make time for trouble, you can

ired laugh. "You re

do. You're working too hard. Your shoulders are always tense, and you smell li

automatically. "

rything, the bills, the work, me." Her eyes glisten. "But I see how you

roat tightens. "I just don't want

his cold place. "You won't. I'm too stubborn to leave yet." She tries to jo

ping her sip. "Don

looks at me again. "

t is

hard things get, you won't forg

am taking ca

y. "You're surviving

loused hands. "It's a

aint but proud. "Yo

laugh

ay after a pause. "And maybe some soup from

ly if you promise to w

yebrow. "Nic

hing clean. You used to wear bright colors whe

olors don't pay ho

cold, but gentle. "I know. But sometimes, looking

can't tell if she's talkin

wning a small flower shop, about how she misses the smell of rain in the morning. I tell her I'll find a way to p

d, I stand. "I'll come

s. "And fix your hair, Summer.

ck the lump in my

's already closing her eyes, the IV lin

nd quiet footsteps. My reflection stares back at me from the window

murmur, trying to

nd whisper, almost to myself, "One more da

ng the weight of her words, and the quiet fire to