These Gentle Wounds by Helene Dunbar EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Helene Dunbar
- Language: English
- Genre:Epic Fantasy
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
The last thing I saw before the car hit the water was an eagle pasted against
the sky.
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And what I remember is this: his tapered wings filled the width of the
dirty window; the air held him up with the promise of magic; he looked
free.
I used to dream about that bird.
But I don’t have dreams anymore.
All I have are memories.
My arms are pinned. Water rushes past my ears, and the kids cry in the
backseat as they start to wake up. My mom’s hands are wrapped around the
steering wheel as she prays, saying words that make no sense but sound
something like poetry.
I’ve left the car window cracked open and the river takes that as an
invitation to pour in. At first it feels good against my hot skin. Cool.
Cleansing. The sound it makes is music to Mom’s words.
But suddenly there’s only water. I throw my shoulder against the window,
trying to break the glass. I hold my head up to catch the little bit of air left
in the car and gasp for as much as my lungs can hold.
“Gordie,” I hear. “Ice. Hey, Ice.”
The sound belongs to my brother, Kevin. My brain wraps around it like a
kid around a security blanket. His voice climbs into my head and replaces
the crying, the praying, the water.
“I didn’t die.” My mouth forms the words easily enough. It’s harder to get
my mind to accept them.
One part of me knows I didn’t drown, but another part of my fucked-up
brain thinks I did. Just like the kids in the back. Just like Mom meant me to.
My brother holds my arms down on the bed, thinking he’s keeping me
safe now like he couldn’t before. My jaw is sore from clenching my teeth to
stop myself from repeating the words. But part of me is still in the river, and
Kevin knows that.
“You’re okay,” he says. It isn’t a question.
He doesn’t trust me enough to release my arms immediately. But once he
does, they automatically fold up around me, stiff and sore like the broken
wings of a gull. It hurts worse than after a hockey game where I’ve fended
off a ton of shots on goal. Worse than it did on That Day, when it actually
happened.
My eyes take a minute to focus, but when they do, it’s on the bashed-up
wall next to my bed. The blue paint is chipped. The edges of the holes in
the plaster are tinged with blood stains that we’ve given up trying to wash
away or paint over.
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