Pink Drink


by Rhee ©



When youíre nine years old the world doesnít seem too big. When youíre nine years old raspberry fizzy drink tastes like fun, laughter and sunshine. When youíre nine years old your parents are god and their every word was truth. Well, at the beginning of the day anyway.


When I was nine years old I sat on a pub bench in the beer garden and sipped fizzy pink drink through a straw (I still love how the bubbles make you sneeze).


When I was nine my parents argued and my younger brother cried. At nine you donít understand resentment, hurt or a love apart from the unconditional kind your parents offer. At nine you only hear raised voices and it hurts your ears. At nine your world crumbles with every argument your parents have. And at nine, if you donít want to ride with your daddy in a dusty, smelly old ute, you throw a tantrum (and I was the queen of all tantrum chuckers). I won and sat up proud in the car with mummy, my brother whining in the back. We all watched daddy speed off, but only I heard it when mummy turned and said ďIf anything happens itís all your fault.Ē


At nine an hours drive home is a long time and when you finally get there your lids are heavy, but even your mummyís brainwashing you to thinking itís all just a bad dream doesnít wipe the image of your daddyís open wrists. Blood like pink drink and itís all your fault.


When youíre ten you know better than that.



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