it’s not a holiday’s fault

there’s a yellow light and

it’s too hot and

very cold, all at once.

i’m frozen in place,

grimacing in pain,

stood to one side and

unable to move.

he stands a few feet away,

deceptive smile in place.

“excited?” he asks, looking

to me. i quickly pull a smile

across my lips.

“sure,” i say. “you know what

“i like.” he doesn’t. he doesn’t.

he doesn’t. but i don’t

dare say otherwise. i move

robotically to the dining

room, sit in my seat

(always beside his)

(always in reach of a punishing)

(hand. a punishing kick.)

i sit in my seat,

sat on my hands. i stare at

the table—think to myself,

i should probably offer to

set the table. i feel like i’m

going to die, sitting here, waiting,

but i don’t get up. i might

break something if i try

to set the table. so i just

wait. back is ramrod straight.

breaths are hardly there. eyes

trained on the moving grain of

the table. at least at my aunt’s,

she begrudgingly makes me

mac and cheese alongside

the traditional thanksgiving dinner.

i hate eating in november, i think. he always

makes me eat the driest turkey

and the slimiest green beans and

the sour cranberry sauce and i can

only have one buttered roll. and i

HATE EATING STUFFING. i could die,

i think, if he makes me eat

one more thing.

he might kill

me if i don’t,

though.

he finally calls me to set the

table. i go into the kitchen,

feeling like every step is one closer

to death. i ask what’s for dinner, so

i know what to grab. “turkey,”

he grins, “and green beans, with stuffing.”

i nod. “your favorite,” he says

with a laugh. i laugh emotionlessly

along with. i grab enough plates

and enough silverware. i lay out the plates

like he instructs, and i place the silverware

just how he likes, except for

at my place, which he allows, only because

he makes fun of me each night for it anyways. i go back into

the kitchen for the potholders. when i

pass by him, my

breath doesn’t come out

on the exhale. i

can’t breathe. something always holds me

back from breathing in his

presence, and i—i—i—

i don’t breathe—i don’t

breathe, i don’t—breathe, i—

i can’t, i can’t, i—i don’t breathe, i—

i grab the potholders and move

away from him. he says something,

laughs. i laugh along, having not heard,

but his tone indicates i should

laugh. so i do. next i get drinks. i

refill his, not breathing as the

water fills his cup. it’s

hard to breathe on my

way to setting his cup down at

his place. when i finish with the

table, i sit at my place,

sat on my hands. back

ramrod straight. eyes on the

moving grain of the

table. breathing hardly

at all.