Pink Drink
by Rhee ©
When you’re nine years old the world doesn’t seem too big. When you’re nine years old raspberry fizzy drink tastes like fun, laughter and sunshine. When you’re 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 don’t 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 don’t 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 “If anything happens it’s all your fault.”
At nine an hours drive home is a long time and when you finally get there your lids are heavy, but even your mummy’s brainwashing you to thinking it’s all just a bad dream doesn’t wipe the image of your daddy’s open wrists. Blood like pink drink and it’s all your fault.
When you’re ten you know better than that.
hits since
04/04/04