Shatter-Me-PDF-Shatter-Me-Series-Shatter-Me-Shatter-Me-1-Tahereh-Mafi (1)

“That was an accident.” The words tumble out of my
mouth so quietly, so quickly I don’t even know if I’ve
actually spoken or if I’m actually still sitting here or if I’m
actually 14 years old all over again all over again all over
again and I’m screaming and dying and diving into a pool of
memories I never ever ever ever ever I can’t seem to forget.
I saw her at the grocery store. Her legs were standing
crossed at the ankles, her child was on a leash she thought
he thought was a backpack. She thought he was too
dumb/too young/too immature to understand that the rope
tying him to her wrist was a device designed to trap him in
her uninterested circle of self-sympathy. She’s too young to
have a kid, to have these responsibilities, to be buried by a
child who has needs that don’t accommodate her own. Her
life is so incredibly unbearable so immensely multifaceted
too glamorous for the leashed legacy of her loins to
understand.
Children are not stupid, was what I wanted to tell her.
I wanted to tell her that his seventh scream didn’t mean
he was trying to be obnoxious, that her fourteenth
admonishment in the form of brat/you’re such a brat/you’re
embarrassing me you little brat/don’t make me tell Daddy
you were being a brat was uncalled for. I didn’t mean to
watch but I couldn’t help myself. His 3-year-old face
puckered in pain, his little hands tried to undo the chains
she’d strapped across his chest and she tugged so hard he
fell down and cried and she told him he deserved it.
I wanted to ask her why she would do that.
I wanted to ask her so many questions but I didn’t because
we don’t talk to people anymore because saying something
would be stranger than saying nothing to a stranger. He fell
to the floor and writhed around until I’d dropped everything
in my hands and every feature on my face.
I’m so sorry, is what I never said to her son.
I thought my hands were helping
I thought my heart was helping