Seven Sons

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Confucius said, “Before embarking upon a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

 I planned to dig seven.

Sometimes I don’t think about it for hours at a time. Sometimes, a whole day will pass, and it’ll be there, under the surface, burning my insides with the brutality of its truth. My truth.

 And I’ll get home from my dead-end job in this dead-end fucking town in the asshole of Nebraska, and I’ll have almost made it through a whole day of not thinking about it, about my father and Dornan Ross and his sons.

But then I’ll do something without thinking, like undress to go to bed, or slide under the covers of my bed. And I’ll see the marks they branded on my right hip – seven horizontal lines, each stacked on top of each other, made by casting the blunt edge of a butcher’s knife into fire and then pressing it into my flesh. A line for Dornan Ross and a line for each of his six older sons. Notches on a bedpost. Scarred for a lifetime so that I can never forget. Some are thicker than others, some short and others long, but each one a devastating reminder of everything they took from me that night.

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