Antediluvian
The flood swept me away when I was ten. It came roaring through my living room and picked up the toys I'd left behind. A doll. A set of blocks. It took my childish things and left me empty, soaked. Saturated with salt water and blood.
They tore the house down. I never saw it again. For me, it only exists before the flood.
The wallpaper was warm like honey. Momma read her books and listened to the blues. Daddy... Daddy was like the water. Soft and calm on the heavy, humid days. Terrifying and unpredictable when the morning sky turned red.
He painted the walls with his emotions. Our kitchen was yellow and bright. He'd done that room on a good day. The living room was a heavy red-purple. He painted the living room on my ninth birthday. Then he came to my room and painted my walls with blood.
There's a before and there's an after and there's a vast ocean of crashing water between them.
Momma and I live with her momma now. Grandma is old like an ancient oak tree. Her face shows the lines of the lean seasons and the floods. She smiles like she means it, and nobody says Daddy's name anymore. The one time Momma talked about him, she said he'd been swept out to sea with the levies. Grandma spat on the dirt yard and said "Good riddance."
So that's how I see him. He was the flood. He crashed through our lives and settled back into the abyss.
And now there's only an empty room. The toys are gone and the honey wallpaper bulges with decay. This room exists in my belly. My childish things are gone, swept out to sea, and I am alone in this room of salt water and blood. But I smile and don't mention Daddy.
He tore me down and I never saw him again. For me, I only existed before the flood.
