The Cursed Glass of Milk
The glass of milk on the table stares at me. Always white, thick, and slushy like melted snow. The smell of it makes my stomach churn. I cover my mouth with my hand while my grandmother's voice booms in the background. Milk is sacred. Milk is good for you. Never refuse, or the evil spirits will catch you. Even the Gods bathe in them. No matter what I tell her, she never understands. Neither do my parents. Neither does my younger sister. I watch them gulp this creamy liquid down their throats. Smacking their lips in pleasure. Relishing the taste of this foamy swirl.
The glass of milk mocks me. I struggle to take a sip. I choke, gag, and cough. The white goop of mucus finds its way onto my table mat. Judgmental expressions. Judgmental remarks. You like ice cream. You like yogurt. You like milk sweets. You like milkshakes. You do not like milk?
I stare through the window at the moon until stars dance in front of my eyes. My mother clears the table, and my family retreats to bed. I sit in the chair, facing my glass of milk. I curse the cows who produced this foamy liquid. I curse the milkman who drops off a bottle every morning at our doorstep. I curse my family for forcing me to drink a glass every night.
Trees sway in the gentle breeze outside the window, whispering to each other. The glass of milk smirks. I pour the phlegm color liquid out the window. The glass has lost its sheen. This time, I smirk and mock it. Triumphant by my unexpected impudence. I watch the white droplets trickle to the bottom of the glass. I place it on the table and go to bed.
At night, I have dreams. The falling white glass has sprouted arms and beckons for help. Its banshee-like screams haunt me. I see two shadows dressed in white, almost like a blur. I toss and turn, feeling anxious. Were the Gods angry? Were the evil spirits going to catch me? I open my eyes to the rooster's crowing. I come out of my room and hear my grandmother grumble that the milkman did not show up. She looks at me with raised eyebrows and points at the table. You did not drink your milk, she scolds me. I stare in horror and wonder-If the milkman didn't come, then who? How? I don't understand. My stomach churns. My head swirls. The glass of milk stares back at me. This time, it is white with a yellowish tinge, like soup made of crushed bones.
Swetha Amit is currently pursuing her MFA at University of San Francisco. She has published her works in Atticus Review, Oranges Journal Gastropoda Lit, Amphora magazine, Grande Dame literary journal, Black Moon Magazine.