The Light Under the Door
by
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Chapter One Splintered World Every time I breathe, wood creaks and glass tinkles. I’m lying on the floor, with the half hutch pinning down my right arm. The glass from the door is smashed and I suddenly become afraid to move. Shards of glass decorate my hair and I feel something warm running down my neck. I put the pieces together in my head. He brought home some ground beef and I made mashed potatoes. Oh…I forgot to put the salt on the table. I remember being screamed at, that I was stupid. I guess I am. How hard is it to put salt on the table? I got lost in the thought of eating real food and I forgot. He sent his plate flying across the room, smashing into the wall beside the table holding up the old hutch top. He found it in the garbage and thought we could use it. I scrambled to clean up the food before he yelled at me to do it. I looked up to see him push the hutch top off the table, falling over on me. Now, I just lie here for the longest time, numb. The babies! I listen for the babies and I remember they are asleep for the night. I listen for him and I remember the back door slamming. He’s gone…and I wonder how much time I have before he returns. With my free hand, I push out from under the hutch. The glass crunches where I move and makes me wince when I step on it. I feel defeated. I massage my painful arm. His disapproving voice rings in my ears, “Can’t even put salt on the fucking table!” I feel my face turn red with shame. In the bathroom, I sway before the mirror and clean up the blood. I have more bruises than cuts and the face looking back at me mocks me. See what happens when you don’t pay attention. I return to the living room with a broom and dustpan. I put what’s left of the hutch back on the table. If I remove the other door, it can be used for shelves. We have so little and the hutch makes the house look less needy. Glass still tinkles and wood scrapes against the floor, in a disjointed, derisive concerto as I sweep up the mess. Then, in the pile of dirt, glass and debris, I see the food he pitched across the room. On my hands and knees, I begin to pick up bits of ground beef, mashed potatoes…and I eat them. I am careful there are no bits of glass and I push the cold, greasy food into my mouth. It tastes like salvation…My mouth is not as quick as my hands and I rock back and forth on my knees, mouth too full and hands holding on tightly to one more morsel of congealed burger and cold lumps of potato. My stomach feels sick from eating so much, so fast. In despair, I have to leave the rest; it breaks my heart. I wash the floor and then me. I remove the remaining door on the hutch and aside from that it looks like nothing happened, like nothing is different. But something is very different this night, as I heave the mattress, throw it on the floor and make my bed. This night, as I lay still in the darkness, the terrors do their infernal dance. He will be back and soon. My own soul is splintered and empty but my stomach is full.
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About the Book
The fading spots of blood and the piss stains mock me like they are saying, “We told you so, told you, you’d be back.” They are right. Once more, I find myself lying at the bottom of the basement stairs—my husband’s favorite punishment. This is old business. I can’t even cry. These stains were left by me, the last time I occupied this space, reminding me this is probably not the last. If something happens to me, at least the blood and the piss have marked my passage, marked my existence that, once upon a time, I was here. I try to sit up, and my body screams in protest. I almost collapse again when I hear my babies screaming, “Want mommy! Want mommy!” Then the tears come. In the light under the door, my only view in this endless darkness, I watch their little feet frantically going back and forth searching for me, unaware that I’m right behind this door. When you begin to lose yourself and you don’t know which way is out, that’s the time when the shadows come, carrying suitcases and trunks filled with the latest styles in fear, uncertainty, and despair; they are more than happy to throw them open all at once and settle into your life. The trick is to get to that place where you can finally tell them to pack up and get the hell out.
About the Author
Neoma Nayrah spent many years working with women’s healing circles, helping abused women to reconnect with their strength, courage, and wisdom. She is a successful dream interpreter and accurate hand reader. Based on a true story, The Light Under the Door is book one of an anticipated two-book project. To schedule or inquire about speaking engagements, book signings, and personal appearances, please send inquiries to celticfullmoon@gmail.com. Ms. Nayrah lives in Arizona.