Turn Off ~ Mirna
The world turns on, like that slow fade-in that the TV does when you pull the knob out. Everything slowly comes into focus, tinted yellow from the towel hanging in the window.
The TV is still on from last night, playing a Pillsbury Doughboy commercial with cinnamon rolls covered in frosting. Yummy. The little white Doughboy lets out a giggle as someone's hand comes in to poke him, and my tummy rumbles and twists.
I look around the living room and see a box of crackers on the floor and a bag of M&Ms. I push my blanky away and slide off the couch to sit in front of the box. It feels empty when I pick it up, it looks empty when I peek inside, but I reach in anyway, pull out the bag. A few crumbs. I turn the bag over and catch the crumbs, shove them into my mouth, and chew. Swallow air.
The M&Ms are gone. I remember, because I ate them last night for dinner, but I pick up the bag anyway, tear it open. The tiny broken colored pieces slip out of the wrapper before I can lick them up, and they fall into the carpet. I can hear Momma's voice in my head: "Don't eat off the floor Miri. You're not a dog."
I think Momma came home last night. I remember the door went bang and woke me up, and she stumbled in and stomped around the kitchen and then went to her room. Maybe I can have a real breakfast today, like the kind that Travis used to make for me before he left. I close my eyes, and I can see him: black shiny hair, big nose, scratchy face, goofy smiles, cooking at the oven and blowing smoke from his mouth. Yelling about something stupid that Momma did, making me laugh. I miss breakfast with Travis.
I stand and walk past the kitchen and bathroom to Momma's room. Her bed has a nice lump of covers, with her long black hair trailing out. Yes, she did come home, it wasn't just a dream. I pick my way across the floor to her bed, careful not to step on the jewelry, the trail of clothes, the high heels and dirty spoons. Her bed is so high, but I can climb up, and that's why Travis called me Little Monkey.
"Momma." I whisper. I rub her hair, but she doesn't move. "Momma." I shake her, but she still doesn't wake up. "Momma!"
"Go back to sleep Miri." Her words sound scratchy and muffled from her pillow.
"I'm hungry." My voice sounds whiney the way Momma hates it, but I can't help it. My tummy just hurts so much.
"I'll make you something when I get up, I promise. Just give me a couple more hours." She pulls on her covers, and her head disappears. For a while, I can't do anything but stare at the lump where she's hiding. Then I slap her. Even through the covers, it hurts my hand when I hit her head.
"Uh, you little beach! Get out, right now." She rolls at me, and I fly back off the bed and hit the floor on my bottom. The tears flood my eyes. I scramble to my feet, put my hand over my mouth to stop the crying, and hurry out.
I run back to the TV, grab my blanky, collapse on the floor, and let it out long and hard into the frazzled yarn. Until I can't feel anything but the hunger pains, and I get up and go to the kitchen. The food is in the higher cabinets, above the counter where I can't reach, but I open all the bottom drawers just in case. Pots and pans, empty butter tubs, and dish towels. Not a single thing to eat.
The fridge is probably empty, but I look anyway. Jar of something red, bottle of ketchup, butter, and a carton of eggs. I pull out the carton. Empty. I can't make eggs anyway. Travis can, but he never showed me how.
I turn back to the counters. The bottom drawers are open like steps. I set my jaw, grab at the top drawer to steady myself, and step up on the bottom drawer. I grab the counter top and step up again. My feet slip—I catch my knee on the drawer underneath me. I pull myself up, turn around, and sit on the counter, rubbing my knee. It hurts, but the pain in my tummy is even worse. I reach up to the cabinet and stand, pull the closest cabinet open, and duck under it. Macaroni and cheese in a box, cans of vegetables, Lucky Charms. I reach up, but it's too high, up on the second shelf.
The counter is covered with lots of things. A pan, toaster, papers and envelopes, a bowl. I reach down and pull the toaster over, put one foot up. It feels sturdy. I hold onto the cabinet and step up, reach for the box, and grab it.
Something goes wrong, and the toaster moves underneath me. My feet hit the counter. I fall backward and spin upside down, and then the world turns off.
Child Social Services ~ Deb
A lady storms through the E.R. doors. She has a little girl in her arms, held awkwardly away from her body. The poor little thing. She looks about five years old, malnourished, in need of a bath and a hairbrush. The faint smell of urine fills the air as the two approach the counter. The lady looks bedraggled, anxious, and rather out of it.
"There's something the matter with her." She sets the child on the counter and holds her up. The poor girl can barely keep her head straight.
"Curtain three is open. Bring her back." I walk around the counter and lead the lady back. She practically drops the child on the bed and then rubs her hands on her jeans. "When did it start?" I check the girl's pupils, which are slightly dilated, and take her pulse. She pulls back from my touch... Eighty-four beats per second.
"Uh." The lady gazes away and makes a strange gesture. "I only left her alone for a minute and..." She runs her hand through her hair. Her fingers get caught, and she yanks them free. "I think she fell and hit her head. There was a big racket."
Hmm, I'm not buying it. "What's her name?"
"Mirna."
I lean down and give the girl a warm, friendly smile. She locks eyes with me, but looks away. "Hi Mirna, my name is Deb. I'm a nurse. I'm going to try to make you feel better, okay?"
Mirna nods at the wall.
"It would help if you can tell me what happened." I pause, but Mirna avoids my eyes and acts like she didn't hear me. "Do you remember anything?"
She shakes her head.
"Does it hurt anywhere?"
She bends her head forward and points at the back of her head.
"She might have hit her head," I say to the lady, the mother I'm guessing. "She lost bladder control."
"She was like that when I found her." The lady crosses her arms and practically glowers down at the girl.
"Well, Mirna, let's get you cleaned up, and then I'll have Dr. Adams come see you, okay?" I pull back the curtain and carefully lift Mirna to sit up. I ease her shirt off, a cute little white shirt with a pink bunny. My goodness, it's dirty. I slide a hospital gown over her and then take off her soiled pants and toss them in a garment bag. "There you are." I let her back against the bed. "Now don't be afraid, we'll fix you right up, okay?"
Mirna nods, but that frown is stuck on her face.
"It'll be just a moment." I walk back to the front desk to grab a chart, but like an automatic response, I set it back down and pick up the phone to call Child Social Services.
Blunt ~ Mia Conlins
"You can't do this!" I scream at the top of my lungs. "I'm her mother! What right do you have to take my child from me?!"
"Momma!" Miri cries. She wriggles and squirms in the lady's arms. "Momma!" She stretches out her little hand for me, but the security guard bars my way. She's so scared and alone, and I can't help her. It breaks my heart.
"Ma'am, we have sound evidence that you have been neglecting—"
"Don't you ma'am me!" I interrupt her. "I would never hurt my baby! Now give her back before I call the police!"
"Momma!" Miri sobs.
"The police are already on their way," the security guard says in a low rumbling voice. "Cooperate now and you might get your little girl back."
That means there's a chance I couldn't get Miri back. I take a big breath and nod.
A doctor runs up to us and holds out a black film, maybe an x-ray. "There are signs of blunt trauma to the head, a few hairline fractures."
The social worker hoists Miri up on her hip and says, "That's evidence of abuse. Remove her immediately."
"I'm sorry," the security guard mumbles. He takes me by the arms to the door.
"Momma!" Miri whines.
"No!" I shout. "I didn't hurt my baby. I'd never hurt her. It was an accident. She fell and hit her head, I swear!"
"Yeah, yeah, tell it to the judge." He shoves me into the hallway just as a real police officer arrives with his hand cuffs already out and ready for me.
"Youhave the right to remain silent," he says bluntly, and he cuffs me.
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1,600 Words