The blood dripped onto Chenise’s yellow kitchen floor, each drop landing with a soft tap that seemed louder than thunder in the sudden silence. Her left eye was already swelling shut, and she could taste copper in her mouth where her tooth had cut through her lip. Deshan stood over her, his fist still clenched, while his sister Candace held a chunk of Chenise’s natural hair in her manicured fingers like some kind of trophy.
“Look what you made me do,” Deson said, shaking his head like he was disappointed in a child. All I asked was where my dinner was. Shenesh tried to speak, but her jaw felt loose, wrong somehow. She had been late coming home from the salon because Mrs. Patterson needed her gray roots touched up before her church anniversary.
She had texted Deshan, told him she would pick up chicken on the way home. But that wasn’t good enough. It was never good enough anymore. You embarrassing him walking around here like you too good to cook, Candace added, dropping the hair onto the floor next to Chenise. Acting like your little salon makes you better than family.
8-year-old Amara’s bedroom door was closed upstairs, and Chenise prayed her baby girl had her headphones on, lost in one of those YouTube videos she loved watching. This wasn’t the first time things had gotten physical, but it was the worst. Usually, Deshawn would push her, maybe grab her arm too tight. But tonight, when she had walked through the door with the KFC bag, apologizing for being late, he had exploded.
