Breaking Form

Friendship While Under Fire

The first thing my step brother Eric does when he comes home is burst in the door and head right to the bathroom. Leaving the door open, he squats down to piss like a woman, staring a hole into my back as he does. It's only when I shuffle from my spot by our cracked plywood door, a door Eric furnished last week after Mama walloped him in the head for bursting through and breaking the last one, and into the kitchen that I can escape his hot stare. I asked Mama once why he did it. She told me to mind my mouth and stop telling lies, so perhaps I just imagine he's staring at me because I'm lonely. I desperately want someone to talk to- that's why I wait in my spot by the door for Precka my cat to come home, and why I tell lies about Eric staring at me while he takes a piss.

It's almost time for Eric to come home, and I pray that Precka will come home first. I need her comfort and guidance. When she drags herself onto our porch, her paralyzed foot dragging through the shit left over from that burning brown bag last week, I can tell her all about my day. Perhaps I should clean up the shit first, but if I use mama's shovel to do it, she'll be mad.  She tells me that her shovel hangs on the wall for decoration and that it keeps the ghosts away. She tells me that ghosts are scared of shovels because their bodies were buried with one, and that I will be too if I keep using her things. Only Precka understands my deep sensitivity and good intentions.

Sometimes I just pick up Precka's droppings with my hands, I know she doesn't eat anything strange because I feed her, but I'm a little weary about the origins of the bag's contents that Mama stomped out. She had been livid that night.

"Who put this damn flaming bag of poo here!" She had yelled, all while little bits of flaming shit flew through the air. Some had landed in her hair, a stray piece landed on my cheek, but she kept stomping and yelling for the culprits to come out and explain themselves. They didn't come. I bet it's because they were afraid of the flying, flaming pieces of shit, but Eric says I'm usually wrong. Maybe they just didn't hear her yelling for them.

These days Precka is my only joy, and I can't let her keep dragging her poor foot through that. With this in mind I shuffle from my knees and open the door and drop back down to reach the smeared stuff. When Eric comes home and asks where the shit went, I'll be polite and tell him that a neighbor cleaned it up. He'll yell and tell me I should have just eaten it, but I hurry and scrape it all up with my hands and throw it into the overgrown lawn grass anyways. Sometimes things like this get to me. I ask myself why I'm the one who has to do this. I know it's my job. Mama says I do the cleaning because I'm bad, and bag girls clean, but sometimes I just daydream that I had a bad sister to do it for me. I could yell and scream at her to clean the shit off the porch, but she probably wouldn't listen to me anyways. That's why I only dream about it.

When I finish, I enjoy some quiet moments in the kitchen washing my hands before the front door slams open, it's already cracked edges splintering more. Eric comes in with oil all over his face from construction work. It's all over his nose especially, and I stare at it as he points out how greasy my hair is, and how I had better come over and pay the man of the house some respect. He tells me that I should show him some gratitude, after all, he lets me stay here despite me being a freak. He asks why I even bother waiting for my cat each day, it's probably dead anyways.

"Aha," I laugh. "That's a good joke Eric. You're very funny."

"And you're disgusting, you slutty mess," he says viciously, walking past me to the bathroom and staring at me as he unbuckles his pants to sit down on the toilet.

He's never been very kind to me.

I stand there dumbly for a moment, hoping he'll look away. He doesn't, and so I hunch my shoulders a little more and shuffle back into the kitchen. I still have shit under my nails, and I can't let Precka see it. She always makes sure she's clean for me, spending hours grooming herself. I never feel more loved and appreciated than those moments when she cleans me too, but I know that's selfish. Last year I decided to wash myself and shower as often as I could. That way she wouldn't have to, but she still does sometimes. Her sandpaper tongue tickles. I recall Jesus from the bible cleaning a whores feet. I think Precka might be just like Jesus. Just as I begin to dry my hands I hear Precka yowl outside the door, and I shuffel to the door as quickly as I can. I have a dead foot too. It bothers me sometimes, but what can I do? Shuffling Is all I can do, and Eric tells me it's waddling, but at least I can walk. A girl in my English class can't. I remember asking her on the first day of school if she wished she could walk.