EVANESCENCE
A Chocolate-y Burn
by Lady Edding
Dear Eula Biss,
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Seven felt like the right scale; the pain I felt that day was too strong to be a five and below, but bearable enough not to be an eight or above. It was an early morning. The rain pattered quietly against the metal roof of our house. A freshly made Milo drink was sat right in front of me on the dining table. I didn't really like Milo, it was just routine at that point to make the chocolate drink in mornings where the sun decided to cool down for a bit. There were seven of us surrounding that small dining table. I sat closest to the edge. It was the nearest to the refrigerator, and a quick leap away from the dirty kitchen. We cramped seven oddly bodied people on to that table. Funnily enough, that table was originally too small for our growing family. Instead of buying a new, larger table, my father decided it was cheaper to buy thick, tempered glass that was huge for the table. The spoon in my hot drink resonated with the heat, its warmth oozing out onto the glass sheet. My parents had seven kids. It was just the right number. One was still asleep, the other cradled in a makeshift baby swing,
and the other five had witnessed how my elbow nudged the spoon still soaking all the heat in that ceramic cup, knocking over the cup as well as all of its boiling hot, chocolatey drink onto my lap. The pain was immediate. But I didn't scream. I hissed, clenching my teeth hard. The heat radiated across my lower right abdomen. My mother was calmly telling me to apply running water.
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Miss Eula, indeed the pain was unbearable when you think it is eternal. A seven out of ten in the Biss Pain Scale. I suffered in that small, square restroom. The bidet in my hands spraying water over the burnt area seemed like infinity. I was hiking up the water bills, for sure. I cried, not because of the pain but because of how I missed breakfast because of the stupid Milo. I still have a scar somewhere on my right thigh, slowly fading into the skin. The tickling heat sometimes lingered like a soft brush of a cruel memory. My little brother, still a few months old, burned himself with a hot iron left plugged on the bed next to him. His burnt young skin uncovering a slight sheet of his epidermis. My little sister as well, playing around outside when my uncle arrived on his motorcycle; she burned herself on the motorcycle's hot engine. For some reason, I think they'd rate it a seven too. Seven was the right number. The pain felt long in my memory, but my wounds healed quickly.
Warm regards,
Lady