Dimensions

Chapter four

My hands shake as I stand on my tiptoes, reaching for the cupboard above the sink. My eight-year old self is too small to reach the medicine cabinet and I need a plaster for my hand. I accidentally cut it on the sharp knife I was cleaning after dinner. The dishes are a regular chore for me but I've never cut my hand cleaning a sharp knife before. It was an exceptionally sharp knife but the cut isn't deep and after running it under water for a while and pressing down on the cut the blood flowing from the wound has slowed to a trickle. 

I stretch up as high as I can and my fingers brush the handle. With a sigh, I thump back down onto my feet properly and walk towards the table. The dishes still sit on the placemats, my brother's half-eaten plate of food starting to go sludgy from being sat there too long. Carefully, I drag a chair over to the sink and climb onto it.

This time, I pull the cupboard door open and a few boxes of my father's pills fall out to the floor. I swallow hard, hoping my father didn't hear. Quickly, I jump from the chair and retrieve the pills, gathering them into my arms and wobbling as I step back onto the chair. I raise to my tip-toe, balancing as best I can and replace the first box. 

The cut on my hand stings as I place the last box back. I tuck my injured hand against my chest and reach up with the other to try and find the plasters. My hand shakes over boxes and bottles until I spot the plasters on the shelf above which I can't reach.

Sighing, I grab onto the cabinet and pull up onto the top of the kitchen unit, balancing on the small edge of the sink. But it's slippery and I stumble, my foot slipping into the bowl of warm, bubbly water. I pull a face of distress as the water starts to soak into my tights and I lift my foot out, watching the water dribble off the fabric, dripping back into the bowl. 

Reaching, I managed to grab the box of plasters from the cupboard and smile to myself, pleased. Then my smile drops as I turn to see my father standing in the doorway.

I drop the box of plasters in shock and look at my father, silently begging him with my eyes not to punish me. My wet foot hangs awkwardly above the water while the other balances on the edge of the sink. My wounded hand, pooling with blood, lets a drop fall and splat against the floor while the other squeezes the cabinet for support so tightly my knuckles turn white. 

And that's how I stand for a few minutes, just watching the look of disappointment on my father's face turn to a look of anger. He stands with his hands on his hips in the doorway, about the same height as me now I'm standing on the unit. I watch him, my heart rate elevating, as he examines the room which I've failed to clean in the slightest since he informed me to.

"Get off the counter." He says, controlling his anger. I do as he says, stepping down onto the chair, wet foot squelching, and then from the chair onto the floor. "What were you doing in the medicine cupboard?" He asks me and I swallow. 

"I cut my hand," I answer honestly, showing the cut, "I was just getting a plaster down."

"Why didn't you come and get me?" he asks gently and I tell myself it's an act, he wouldn't have helped me. "I could have got them down for you."

"I didn't want to disturb you." I say, hoping the answer will suffice but, predictably, it doesn't.

"So, you decided to make the kitchen messier than it was," my father says, "before I left you to clean up?" 

"I'm sorry, daddy." I answer and cower away from him as he walks through the room and stands towering so high above me I have to turn my head directly up to look him in the eyes. "I didn't mean to." He turns his face down in disgust.