a blooded birth

like he was trying to laugh, lit the cigarette and passed it on to dad. Lewis refused to smoke, like he’d said he would, but Pat half-heartedly tried.

“Well,” Bryan said. “Is this all? I thought we were gonna get a bonfire going.” He laughed once, caustic and dry, his voice dripping poison as he said, “Maybe those marshmallows I brought were a mistake.” That was the last straw—it broke me. I couldn’t hold it back any longer, something deep and primal and fierce rising up from my gut, a wail wrenched out of my throat as I bent over, falling to my knees. I was sobbing, unable to stop myself, and everything was a blur—my whole world narrowed to the fine point of my screaming and my crying and my pain. I don’t know how long I stayed huddled in on myself, crying on the ground. Eventually someone put an arm around me, probably Patrick, and helped me back up to my feet. Dad had started the fire, I could smell it, and when I looked up the pyre had erupted in a deep, angry flame. Bryan’s back was to it, his face wet with tears, and Lewis had covered his face with his hands, head tipped up to the sky. Dad’s hand was on the brim of his cap, pulled down to shade his eyes. My whole body shook and my eyes burned. I went back to my cigarette but I wasn’t hungry for it anymore. I didn’t want it, couldn’t stand the feel of it hanging from my lips. And all I could taste was ash.

HANNAH MADONNA 55