What is a monster?
I Have My Mother’s Eyes
When I was fourteen years old Mother sat me down after my brother had been sent to bed and placed her hand on my shoulder.
‘I think it’s time we had the talk,’ she said.
‘I’ve already covered it at school, like years ago,’ I said and brushed her hand away.
‘It’s not that kind of talk,’ she said.
I had told my brother earlier in hurried whispers how walking home, my school jumper tied around my waist to try and cover the yellow and maroon plaid of my school skirt, a man had shouted at me from across the road. He’d said all the bad words Mother told us never to say and other things, things that made me blush and wish the ground would swallow me up. My brother of course told Mother as soon as we sat down for dinner. The glee…
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