Scratches

Donny got himself slid between the wood and the glass of his mother's
dining table. Afraid to move for fear of scratching the oak, he
remained there for years. The sun baked his face, and at nights he shut his
eyes to make the frightening noises disappear.
Whenever his mother cleaned the glass, Donny's back teeth tingled.
Flies with spindly twitching forelegs and buzzing gossamer wings frequently
landed in front of Donny's flattened face.
He learned to recognize the time of the year by the designs on the
bottom of the dishes his family ate out of. Numbers stamped in blue meant
the Noritake china had been removed and set on the table for the holiday.
Yellow daisies lapping over porcelain rims meant it was just a regular meal.
Sometimes, straw paper plate holders were slid over Donny's face.
Hot dogs? Chilli?
Often, muffled conversation accompanied the family's meals. His
parents, brothers, and sisters sometimes cried when they spoke of Donny.
They'd never forgotten their missing brother.
Weeping himself, Donny wanted to scream, ‘I'm here beneath the
glass!’
But of course, Donny knew if he opened his mouth he might scratch
the wood surface of his mother's prized table.