The Cleanse

The light turned yellow.  I didn’t have enough time to speed up and run it.  They were waiting for me- two of them.  I locked the doors.  I couldn’t prevent it; they were desperate for money.  I made eye contact with one.  Frightened, I looked away and absently caught the eyes of the other.  I hadn’t seen such hatred for me since I was a kid.  Their faces transformed into those of my brothers.

Older brothers are supposed to protect- not harm their sister.  Our parents had sex too soon after my dad’s vasectomy.  I was an accident.  My brothers reminded me of this as they held down my arms and punched my sides. Everything they wanted -- the best toys, name brand tennis shoes, guitars, bigger allowances – our parents couldn’t afford, because of me.  I shouldn’t have been born, my brothers said.  I ruined their lives.

Four or five squeezes on the trigger released a spray of liquid across the windshield.  As the boys used the squeegee on the blurred view, my brothers’ faces reverted back to theirs.  The light turned green.  A honk came from the car behind.  I could have driven off, but I reached into my purse instead.  My finger pressed the button, making the window descend.  I handed a twenty to the kid closest to me.

“Split it,” I said.

As I drove away, I pulled the lever spraying my windshield with cleanser.  I let the wipers scrape over the glass longer than needed.

Bio: Kristin Fouquet writes and photographs from lovely New Orleans.  She is the author of Twenty Stories (Rank Stranger Press, 2009), a collection of short literary fiction.  You are invited to visit her humble virtual abode, Le Salon, at the web address http://kristin.fouquet.cc