The bruised, ugly banana sat in the blue bowl on the table and mocked her—mirrored her self-image. A once fresh piece of fruit shriveled and died and her soul felt a kinship to the pathetic fruit. She picked up the banana and squeezed it and the brown, viscous pulp oozed like pus from a wound. “I killed you,” she told the sticky mess in her hands. “You’re dead now.” But maybe it was a prayer she uttered to herself.
She washed her hands at the kitchen sink and threw the banana carcass in the trash. The pathetic remains heaved its final breath atop the egg shells and milk carton and she laughed, hard and sudden. But the laughter hurt and her hand flew up to the swollen cheek to see if it was dead. She was dead. She winced at her own touch and with disappointment, realized she still lived. Still felt hurt. Still uglied and bruised by heartless fists and ruthless jealousy. Still waiting for her moment atop the garbage heap and final, eternal sleep.
Christine’s bruised ugly awaits you.