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The Rock Collection

An original short story about a girl's childhood trauma that's always close at mind.

By Randi ValtierraPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
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The Rock Collection
Photo by Franco Antonio Giovanella on Unsplash

“Laura, watch my tables, I’m going to pop out back for a smoke really quick.”

I don’t wait to see if she heard me, I know everyone else did so I slipped out the back door by the walk in freezer. When it gets really hot in the kitchen they prop the back door open and hope for a cool breeze to float through past the grills and ovens. I heard the Spanish music playing in the kitchen as I walked past a row of cars to the little island of trees by the dumpsters.

I pulled a cigarette out of my apron and lit it quickly before the breeze took the flame. Spying a rock sticking half way out of the red dirt next to my foot, I used my black, slip-resistant Converse and kicked it a little to try and dislodge it. When it popped out I reached down and used my fingers to clean it. It was too rounded so I dropped it back on the ground.

I have more than a dozen rocks in my collection. They were all sharp rocks. The kind with sharp jagged edges that if you close your hand tightly enough around it you would draw blood. The rounded rocks weren’t as special. They didn’t leave a lasting memory.

Squeezing the rock in hand I can’t help but remember the first sharp rock I collected. The first one that scarred my palm.

——————–

I used to love riding my bike, I would just take off down the street pedaling as fast as I could. When the wind screamed in my ears, I hoped I would pedal fast enough to fly away.

I didn’t realize how late it was until the street lights started flickering on and that’s when I saw that I was nearly a mile away from home. I turned and pedaled hard trying to go as fast as possible.

As I came around the corner of the street I looked and didn’t see the truck out front and was hopeful for a fleeting moment until I realized it was parked in the driveway and he was sitting on the tailgate holding a red Tecate can.

I jumped off my bike quickly and walked it past the truck in the garage and he didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to, but I had begun to have hope that he would leave me alone and let me pass when I heard his boots hit the gravel and follow me into the garage.

I didn’t stand a chance to make it into the garage before he shoved me hard, hard enough to fall on top of my bike and into the gravel itself. I tried to right myself quickly but there was a boot kicking me in my hip before I could move. I didn’t dare cry out because I knew it would be worse. Instead I dug my hands into the gravel and squeezed them tightly.

It only took a couple more kicks before he picked up my bike and threw it in the garage. I didn’t move until he went inside the house. It was only after I heard the screen door click, before I got up and saw that besides the rip in the knee of my jeans, I was only bleeding from the one sharp rock in my hand. I shoved it in my pocket so I wouldn’t lose it.

I dusted myself off and wiped my nose on my sleeve before I limped inside.

————————-

“Kristy! Table 44 wants to close out!” I flicked my cigarette out into the parking lot and briskly walked back through the door into the bustling kitchen. Laura had already disappeared behind the line of cooks manning the grills.

I stopped briefly to wash the nicotine from my hands. It only took a little soap to wash away the germs, but the faded little scars on my palms would never disappear completely.

trauma
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About the Creator

Randi Valtierra

29 She/Her

An aunt to 8 kids under 12, I spend a lot of time writing stories for them, and the rest of the time writing stories that they can't read until they grow up.

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