A Love Like Blood Read Online Free PDF

shorts. I marveled at his body from the knees down. His legs were enviable, smooth and bright brown, like a brand new penny with golden undertones. Nothing else could hold my attention. The barber swung the vinyl chair around, and I faced the mirror at his black lacquered station. I stared at the man’s magazine-ready legs. His legs glowed even more in the mirror.
    Later that night, when Father was talking on the phone in the living room, I snuck into my parent’s bathroom. I found a fading cream that I had not seen in the back of the cabinet under the sink. The front of the bottle had an elegant seahorse insignia and the word unblemished prominently printed. The word shimmered with flecks of silver. I smuggled the bottle into the guest bathroom and savored slathering the buttery cream on my legs. Then, I smothered my face with cream. The cream had the consistency of mashed avocado, and it smelled clean. My cheetah rosettes looked less maroon and more medium brown, about twenty minutes later. I applied more to my face. The blotches turned a shade lighter. I applied even more. Rubbing the cream into my skin, I felt a wave of heat, followed by tranquilness, and finally a sensation of an unending euphoria. Even though all the treatments were different, their labels had a shared language: unblemished, clear, healthy, glowing, gorgeous, and beautiful. The word beautiful was always in the description. I knew how valuable the word beauty was. Beauty equaled immunity from Father’s rage. His cameras were beautiful to him, and he loved them more than anything else in his life.
    As I turned on the sink faucet, Father barged into the guest bathroom.
    â€œIf I catch you playing in these again, I’ll cut off your hands,” Father yelled and smacked my head. I fell to the white tiled floor. Blood dripped from a cut on my face. Father dragged my body to the toilet and shoved my hands into the bowl. He yanked out my hands, and as I struggled, he forced me to wipe the white cream off my face with water from the toilet.
    â€œYou should be in the darkroom,” Father yelled and left.
    As I inhaled stale urine from the toilet, I realized that to receive Father’s love photography would have to become my passion. I knew I would have to become comfortable watching the world develop in trays, even when waves rocked the surface.

Chapter 7
    D ried clay flakes, fragile as a spider’s web, fall to the blue bed sheet. The flakes resemble cooled ashes. With each flake, the treatment removes a flaw. Gray guck is caked in-between my fingers and in the lines on my right hand. Gently, with my middle finger, I circle the spot by my Adam’s apple where a blotch appeared earlier. From the way I am lying, at the foot of the bed, I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A slender plastic tube, a straight-sided glass jar, and a round jar christen the bathroom counter and will vanish before Father returns. Creams combined with aloe vera jelly, sticky vitamin E, and slimy banana peels can minimize cuts, scrapes, and black eyes.
    The detailed directions on the round jar suggest I should have washed my sunburned face twenty minutes ago. Ten minutes longer and I will wash the mask off. Ten minutes of shooting can produce more provocative work than five hours of shooting. I learned that from Father, and he learned it from Grandfather, who beat it into him. Grandfather first handed Father a camera when he was five. At five, I received my first camera, a Land Polaroid. When Father turned eighteen, he married Mother at a neighbor’s house. Grandfather used the same Land Polaroid to shoot my parent’s wedding along with fancier equipment. My older family members, on Father’s side, have traditionally married at eighteen. Grandfather married Grandmother at eighteen. Grandfather’s seven siblings were married at eighteen also. There are only two exceptions – Junior and our uncle. I am a year away from marriage