The Tyrant “What’s this?”

She tosses it at me, watching me closely to gauge my reaction, her face a cross between disgust and amusement. 

I am caught off guard. There is no sense in wondering why she was going through my things again. There is no more privacy in this house anymore. 

I can be subjected to searches at any time. Bodily, and of my personal effects. I know it’s my own doing, but I still find myself desperately clinging to memories of the “old days” when I was free to do as I wanted without question.

She is still waiting for my response. 

I wish I could be so focused. She is sitting on the edge of my bed patiently waiting for my answer while my mind thrashes about frenetically, trying to collect my thoughts. 

The truth of it is; I don’t know what to tell her. What I can tell her. What she’ll understand or what she’ll find acceptable.

“I don’t want this in the house. I found this in your bag. I don’t need this.”

My mouth gapes open and I stammer, grasping for words, a phrase, anything to make this interogation end. But I freeze. I can’t believe the power she has over me. Rendering me speechless, incapable of thought or rational thinking. My chest goes cold and I feel my hands get clammy.

She is starting to get impatient. I don’t want that to happen again. Not after the last time. I am still nursing my wounds, convincing myself that I am not the things she called me. 

“Weeelll……” I begin.

Not a good start. I can see she is on the precipice of anger.

“….mommy wanted to keep that just in case you really needed it. I put it in my purse because I wanted to keep it. I thought I might have it bronzed, a little keepsake for my little girl.”

“I don’t need the ciuccio mama, I’m a big girl.”

Crisis averted; but only just barely. 


Word of the week: Ciuccio = (n) soother, dummy, pacifier. An object which a little person (normally a toddler) uses to suck on further enforcing Freud’s theory of Oral Fixations.