One Day by Mari Phillips, stale beer

 One day I won’t be ashamed to tell you about my mother. The night she packed her bags and left us. What did I do wrong?

One day I won’t be ashamed to tell you about my father. The clanking packages he carried from the off-licence. Bottles hidden in the shed or the back of cupboards. He thought I didn’t know. There were several trips to the bottle bank, but only one to the crematorium.

 When I couldn’t bear things any longer, I unscrewed the blade from his razor and drew it across my forearms until I felt the warm beetles scurry away. Always red beetles. Sometimes I rang the Samaritans. ‘How can I help you?’ they said. ‘I’m watching the beetles,’ I said. ‘Would you like to tell me about it?’ ‘Not really... I don’t know.’

I saw your eyes flit over my arms. Just tiny, shiny marks now. One day I won’t be ashamed to tell you where the scars came from.

 

About the author

Mari lives in Leeds, writes mostly flash fiction, with several published in Café Lit, and is working on a couple of ‘longer’ short stories. She also occasionally dabbles in poetry. She is a keen singer and sometime traveller. 

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