Page 33 of Shame

It’s obvious there is a pretty big age gap between me and Shark. I’m not sure how much, but I’d guess he’s in his thirties. So maybe ten years? Give or take a few. We didn’t go to school together because I’d certainly remember him. Though, he’d likely looked much different when he was younger. Smaller, not so muscled or hairy. I probably wouldn’t recognize him as a kid.

Summer is here, and so a summer dress seems fitting… if it still fits. Though I hardly eat much these days, I feel I’ve filled out a little. Maybe it’s muscle from all the running around I do, or maybe I’m eating more than I can remember. No clue.

I pull the white and blue floral dress off the hanger. It’s my favorite. A little more form-fitting than the others, so if it doesn’t fit, at least I have something else to fall back on. I love the way this one hugs my body. Tight around the waist and flowy on the hips. It comes to about mid-thigh, and it’s really soft. Because of the tight bodice, it pushes my breasts up, which I’m not complaining about either.

“Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself as I throw the skirt over my head and shimmy it on. I’m tugging it down when I hear a loud crash from outside my room. There’s another before I get the door open, so I double my pace, running toward the living room where I heard it come from while shoving the dress down the rest of the way so I can see.

Our house is small. Old. It’s safe and sturdy, but the floors are warped and there are crevices between the molding and a few cracks in the walls. The plumbing sucks and we don’t use the hallway bathroom anymore. I had to lock the door from the inside a few months back and climb out the window to keep it that way because the damn lock is broken, and I haven’t been able to fix that yet either. My list of things to fix in this house is hanging on the fridge, and I’ll soon need another sheet of paper.

“Dad, stop!” I shout as he rears his arm back to throw the picture frame he took from the wall. He seems to not hear me and does it anyway. The glass shatters and the wood breaks apart as the photo flutters to the floor, landing face down.

“Dad, please stop!” I run toward him and put my hands on his arms. “What are you doing?”

The rage on his face is scary. He looks as if he’s about to murder someone. Like the picture he just threw threatened to harm the person he loves most.

“They’re watching us, Marie. I saw them!”

I cringe at the use of my mother’s name. He does that a lot, calling me her name. It happens more often than him using my name nowadays. I try to take it as a compliment.

“No one is watching you, Dad,” I say gently.

“The eyes! I saw the eyes!” he barks, shaking out of my grip. I step back, knowing if he’s about to get violent, there isn’t much I can do about it. He hasn’t been violent toward me in a long time, but he doesn’t realize his strength. He’s a big guy, even with how much weight he’s lost.

“Dad, you have to relax. It’s not good for your heart,” I plead. “Will you sit down, please? I’ll get you some water. Better yet, come to the kitchen with me.” I hold my hand out and he stares at it for a long time. I hold my breath, releasing it when he finally takes it and follows me. He sits down at the dining table when I gesture to it. I pour him some water from the jug in the fridge with shaky hands, because he likes it cold. Cold drinks sometimes soothe him when he gets like this, and they’re safer than hot ones. Learned that the hard way.

While he drinks it, I hurry into the living room to clean up the mess. Which is when I realize the flowers Shark got me today are scattered all over the floor, along with a puddle on the carpet and more broken glass.

I should have asked Shark to come by later to give me more time to prepare, but it seemed weird to have him stop by so late. Still, having him here after Dad went to bed would have been smart.

Glancing at the clock, I see I have about fifteen minutes before he gets here. I can’t decide which is more important: cleaning up this mess or getting Dad to bed. Before I can choose,the doorbell rings and I let out a groan, darting my head up to look at it. Guess I’m not getting either done.

I’m sure there are plenty of people who would be embarrassed by the chaos of their life, but I don’t have enough energy for that. There isn’t a single part of me that can waste time worrying about what other people think. Shark will have to accept my life the way it is, or he can walk away. Those are the only options I have to offer.

Unable to do either of the things I wanted to do, I go to the door and pull it open. I force a smile when I see his, but he frowns right away.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I really suck at pretending things are okay…

“Just life kicking me in the butt again. Come in,” I say, moving to the side. “And please be careful of where you step.”

He moves into the living room, eyes darting to all the messes. From the flowers to the wet spot to the shards of glass and photo. I hope he doesn’t get upset that my father ruined the flowers. He’s been so kind that I can’t imagine him doing that, but you never know. And if he did, well, then it’s see you later. I won’t have someone in my life who can’t understand my father—even if I don’t most days.

“Let me clean this up for you. Have a seat.” He gestures to the couch as he walks to where the picture frame shattered, picking up the large pieces of glass. All I can do is stare at him. After he’s got a few pieces in his hand, he looks at me, frowning again. “Go sit.”

I sigh, gesturing to the kitchen. “I have to get Dad to bed.”

He drops the glass into a pile on the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans as he walks to me. He takes my face between his hands.

“Do what you gotta do. I’ll be here cleaning this up.”

He kisses my forehead, his lips soft and warm. He lingers there for a long moment. It brings tears to my eyes. I don’t want this to end. This perfect, safe little bubble. Right here, with him.

“Thank you,” I mutter when he pulls back.

As I walk into the kitchen, I wonder who is looking out for me. Having someone in my life like Shark would be a tremendous help. He’s kind, sweet, thoughtful, understanding—and he makes me feel safe. I don’t feel alone. I feel seen. He’s great with Dad, even though that first night I thought he would never talk to me again. Yet, here he is, cleaning up a mess he has no reason to clean up. Helping me do things he has no reason to.

“You ready for bed, Dad?” I ask.

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