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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 53
somewhere between anger and frustration, I grabbed the
comb and held it as tightly as one would hold a sword. Yet, as

I touched her hair and combed it, I did so as gently as I could.
“You have quite the gentle touch for a boy,” she commented
as I worked, and I took it as an insult.
“Yes, I’m quite frail as well,” I replied bitterly.
“I don’t think you’re frail, you seem to be growing stronger
daily,” she responded, trying perhaps to mend broken pride.
“I do try,” I said, still taking her every word as an insult.
“I know, I see how you fist-fight your shadow at night when
you think we’re all asleep,” she said, laughing. “And how you

pretend your broom is a sword and fence against your shadow
when you’re left to clean alone.” I grew deadly silent.
‘My secrets so openly revealed!’ I thought. My mind flickered
between shame and rage. She must have read my face, for she
looked at me, puzzled, her laughter dying on her lips.
“Why are you always so angry? I wasn’t trying to offend you, I
thought it was funny,” she said as her eyes sought mine.

“tis’ not funny,” I replied. I wanted this exchange of words to
be over with, but I wasn’t in control here, and it drove me mad.
“Alright, I apologize. Now will you tell me why you are always
so angry?” She asked.
“I don’t know,” I told her, looking at the grass. There were
many reasons and she chief amongst them.
“So why don’t you try talking to me instead of sulking all the
time?” She asked.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked honestly, hoping for

once she would reveal to me what she’d like to hear and be
done with it.
“Whatever is on your mind that’s causing you to be so angry
every time I come near you,” she replied.