Childhood

A dull pain at the back of the neck drew his focus away from the task at hand. Lines carefully rehearsed began to degenerate into slurred and stuttered incoherence; they lurched and careened out of his mouth and onto the table where they lay flailing, occupying time for longer than they ought, exposed and in the open, scrutinized. She smelled of lilac. He remembered the tree in the front yard, petals drifting towards the asphalt, a splinter between two fingers.  Days without obligation. And then the pain.

He began to sweat. Fear gripped him. Her lips had pulled back in a cruel smile and exposed rows of pristine teeth. The pain grew.