Stacey Barbe

The House That Had Teeth I lived in a house that had teeth. It did not swallow me whole. It began chewing me up, one bite at a time. The iron front door slammed shut. The lock turned from the inside. I hid. Half my tiny face peeked around a corner. Half a child was harder to find. The refrigerator's inner light outshined my own. The ice cream man's tune rolled down our street. Other children ran toward sweetness. I stayed frozen inside that house. I tied on an apron of shame and tried to help in the kitchen. Not even that apron could keep her vomit and spit from staining my white dress. I kept a spoon in my clenched fist. As soon as Daddy walked through the door, she served up a whole different story. Her lies dripped like honey into his ear before the bitter truth could leave my lips. The belt believed her. A sob the size of her fist rose in my throat. I swallowed it dry. I begged for mercy, and nobody even threw me a bone. All I got was a jawbreaker. After that, I kept my jaw wired shut. Before we could eat dinner, my dad would say grace out loud. Under my breath, I prayed for comfort food. I knew better than to ask her for seconds. She might serve me more than I hungered for. My stomach growled the apologies I never got. That house chewed me up and spit me out. I packed my lunch with hatred and that spoon, a brown bag special I carried with me. I opened it, hoping for a meal, but it only left me starving. Hunger helped me build a house of my own, one without teeth. I set my dinner table, pulled out a chair, and fed that hatred for years. I started digging a grave for her in my backyard, one spoonful at a time. Slowly, the dirt began rising around my own body. Some of us feed hatred all of our lives. Some of us never learn to feed the child starving inside.