Three drunk teenagers play tag in the park. Under the ink-blue sky with the usual constellations, I race to touch a tree staked to the ground and run right into one of the taut and unyielding wires. I feel stunned. We three laugh, breaking the moment. The next day, a deep red line diagonally dissects my arm, torso, and leg, and it radiates into both halves of me. Since being raped at five, I had felt nothing. So that morning it was a surprise to finally see all the colors of bruise and feel all the shades of pain.
Rina Palumbo is working on two nonfiction long-form writing projects alongside short-form fiction and creative nonfiction. Words in Stonecoast Review, Milk Candy Review, Autofocus, et al. Check out her Twitter @Rina_Palumbo and her website www.rinapalumbowriter.com.