Bacon flavored oatmeal

she prepares his breakfast her back to me. he reads the morning paper. I know about the purple-blue shiner under her eye, camouflaged by her fringe. she rubs her back where violent sprouts are blossoming these walls are anything but mute. I know…I guess she knows I know. the oatmeal taste like shit, struggling to find a way to the pits of my stomach the morning sky is bleak with stillborn smiles still stubbornly clinging. a thick silence coats the mood. the urge to call him a cunt is overwhelming. sound of wheels screeching. the school bus hoots once…twice I grab my school bag. her eyes fleetingly meets mine and her pain becomes mine. I take some twisted revenge by saying goodbye to her ignoring the mother-fucker completely.