'Empty Eyes' by Mari Tsetskhladze

I remember the way I used to talk down at my brown, beaten converse rather than at people’s faces because when my mother told me it was polite to look people in the eye, I always thought the eyelets were close enough.

I remember how soft she was, as if you could press your hands on her cheeks and they would sink right in, hitting her warm center rather than finding poking bones and sharp edges. Her words were like that too. They dribbled over her lips, a sickly sweet honey that sometimes stuck my teeth together.

I remember when there was that tree in my back garden, the one with no leaves and the amber sap, and I remember that day I fell. I felt the snap in my leg and everything went white, but I could hear her laughing down at me in the grass, promising that everything was ok, because I was always with her. I don’t think my leg ever healed quite right.

I remember when my brother didn’t laugh. I don’t remember when he left, replaced by a coffee-stained note and my mother’s slight smile.

I remember my clenched fists and my fingernails pressing half-moons into my palms, as I stabbed at her with too many ‘why’s. I remember how my Converse looked a little more brown and a little more beaten that day.

I remember how saying sorry felt a little like my leg does now: not quite right.

I remember the first time I looked her in the eye the way I always thought she wanted me to, and realised that they were not the hazel she always told me they were. They were dark and cold and it felt like if I stared any deeper I wouldn’t find anything at all.