The house was in chaos: a dozen six-year-olds like myself shrieking, shoving, leaping amongst balloons, paper streamers, and spilled M&M’s. Overwhelmed, the birthday girl—my best friend and neighbor—grabbed and clamped her mouth down on my upper arm. Dots of blood in the shape of her teeth surged through my broken skin. Panicked, her mother sequestered me in the bathroom, bathing and bandaging the wound. “Don’t tell your mother. She won’t let you come here anymore,” she said. I complied. A perfect opportunity for this woman to gauge how safe I was for what her husband did to me next.
Shoshauna Shy devotes her days to the English alphabet—writing nonfiction, flash fiction, short stories, and poetry. She is also a copy editor and proofreader.