by Catherine Van Alstine
"Fucking whore;" the words stung as you spit them at me, standing not two feet from me; I could feel the heat of rage that surged out of you. Suddenly you are a volcano of piss and venom exploding your anger, screaming like smoke puffs spewing forth. This would be a pivotal moment in our lives and would leave a scar; you would see to it but there was still time for you to stop, yet you persisted. "Bitch," you called as you flailed your arms and pointed your finger at me, your long brown hair, which I said made you look like a rock star earlier in the week, now hung over your eyes and face, leaving only your mouth and chin exposed for interpretation as your lips curled up in a snarl. Since the day you arrived 15 years ago, you have taken my breath away with the depth and width of your passion, emotion, and your being, and I remind myself you are not yet a man but still not quite a boy. Again today, you have taken my breath away, yet painfully so this time, the wind has been knocked out of me and I want nothing more than for you to stop and leave me alone.
Catherine Van Alstine, author of RIP, uses writing as a tool to learn about herself, people, and the world around her.