***THE REFRIGERATOR
The last day, reeling drunk and laughing. Her father lifted the door and sprayed her with his garden hose. She remembered him tripping on the hose. Slipping on the wet concrete. Falling backward.
His head resonated like a melon as it hit the floor.
Ten years since her mother's death, now nearly his height. She dragged his unconscious body to the fridge, lifted him to the edge, and pushed him in. Folded his arms. Tucked his knees. Closed the door.
The latch clicked.
When her father came to, his yelling and threats, now muffled and weak, held no power. "Lie still and breathe through a hole, Daddy," she whispered as she ripped a piece of cloth from her dress and plugged a hole.
And another.
And another.
***
They found her sitting naked on the cellar floor, knees drawn to her chin, rocking forward and back next to the fridge.
Eyes staring. Chanting, "Don't make me do this again." Her dress torn to strips, strips to pieces, pieces to threads.
***
That was a year ago. The doctors saw progress. Until the day her screams pierced the hush of the women's activity room.
The day she looked at the magazine picture of the old white refrigerator with its chrome latch handle.
When her chest constricted, pulling her wrists to her shoulders.
When her hands curled downward and in.
When she went back into the refrigerator.
