a drawer full of hurt
Emotions, Pt. 2 – A Flash Fiction Piece
Last week, I introduced you to Truth. A woman who finally decided to stop performing, and chose herself instead of the expectations stacked on her shoulders.
Truth comes from somewhere. Someone. This week, I want to introduce you to her mother: Hurt.
This is part of a series I’m calling Emotions—a gathering of women named for the things we are taught to hide. You’ll meet Hope. You’ll meet Love. And maybe a few others.
But first, please spend some time with Hurt.
Here is a scene from her life:
Hurt keeps all her memories locked in drawers.
Memories wrapped in dishcloths, tucked beneath yellowed papers, old buttons, or half-burnt candles. Some drawers she hasn’t opened in years. Others she visits nightly, just to make sure the past is still in place.
Sacrifice, Hurt’s mother, used to keep drawers too.
Hers were full of handkerchiefs and hair grease and things no one was allowed to question.
Sacrifice never told her daughter, “I love you.”
She said, “Be good.”
and
“I’m still here, ain’t I?”
Hurt still isn’t sure what she believes about love.
On this night, her house is still.
The kind of stillness that only comes when both of her daughters are occupied.
Chaos is at a sleepover down the block. Truth is holed up in her room with headphones and her father’s stubbornness.
This is as close to alone as Hurt ever gets.
She lights the same candle as always.
It smells of lavender and burnt sugar.
This is the ritual.
But tonight The Drawer opens too smoothly. The familiar resistance is gone.
Inside, the dishcloths are folded badly. The yellowed papers are shuffled about.
And the photo that always sat on top,
the one of Sacrifice at the sink, her back to the camera, up to her elbows in suds,
is missing.
In its place is a torn piece of notebook paper.
Crayon. Orange, maybe red. It’s hard to tell in the candlelight.
A heart drawn wide, then broken straight down the middle,
waxy and raw at the break.
Beneath the drawing, handwriting loops clumsy and uncertain: "Sorry I looked. I just wanted to see what you were keeping."
It could only be Chaos
That wildfire of a girl was born all nerve and wanting.
She never asks for permission, only space.
Chaos breaks things just to see what they’re made of.
Hurt loved her fiercely but never knew where to put her.
It would never be Truth.
Truth is too careful. Too precise.
She would know what was in the drawer without looking and map its contours in her mind.
Who could say what Truth would do with that knowing?
Hurt had named her daughters carefully. Like prayers. Like warnings.
She wishes she had given them something softer too.
But what else did she have? Only locked drawers.
Only what she was.
She runs a thumb along the crayon heart.
She should feel angry about this.
But she does not. A lump catches in her throat, heavy and hurting.
What she does feel is an unfamiliar ache. From being seen too clearly.
Hurt folds the paper carefully, like it might fall apart if handled wrong.
Places it back in the drawer.
Not hidden. Just… there.
Drawers were never built to keep out daughters.
Still, she can let the trespass stay. She can leave room in spaces where Sacrifice could not.
Because that’s what Hurt does.
She holds the memories so her girls don’t have to.
She swallows the fire before it catches the room
That night, she decides to leave the drawer open a crack.
She doesn’t know why.
Maybe so it can breathe.
Maybe so she can.
Love y’all. Mean it. If you love me back, Buy Me A Book!
-B