Audiobook extract
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Teen (13-17)Accents
North American (General) North American (US New York, New Jersey, Bronx, Brooklyn)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
and the heavy hand of my God rises holding its heavy metal gun. I know that hand will never bring death. Never that for I am much too precious but pain hours and days and long nights and seasons of pain. And I am afraid I turned to face the pitcher and pick it up, holding it with both hands on my pray for death. Quick, painless death. But instead like a survival instinct, the powerful spirits surges ecstatically through my chest, bending my frail, starved body forward. The world sharpens, becomes clear. The tingle starts in my fingers. I can feel it changing and I put it down. And it is wine. I will not look, my God in the eyes. I turned to face the rough planks of the wooden wall and I cursed the miracle on with all of my heart and soul. I wish I was dead. Where was I? Father? My father? Yes, my father and my family. My father used to hit me. He said I wasn't his kid a couple times, but that was a long time ago and the memory of AIDS with remembering. But the pain is shop and distinct. His hand slapping my face, my mother crying out. I sit there, stunned and look up into my brother's eyes. He's standing there in the doorway, watching me approval. That is what I see there approval and the wishful twitch of his right arm. I don't look like my dad. My brothers do that same squeezing together the flesh and bones around the eyes, turning every expression into a doubtful wince. My facial features take after my mother. Maybe that's why me and my little sister got along so well. We both looked like mom and, you know, she told me once I wasn't his. It was after he hit me one time, then stormed out of our apartment, slamming the door hard, making this special glasses rattle and clink together in the Hutch.