Words That Cut, Wounds Not to Heal

“You…rat! You piece of filth!” The words spat from her mouth. Her bony fingers extended then curled back into white-knuckled balls of fury.

Head low, he stepped back slowly, taking note of the environment, the pan of hot grease, the knives in their rack, the utter lack of help or aid on hand.

She advanced, towering over him, “I spit at you,” which she did, “I curse your name! I invoke all the gods of heaven to banish you to the pits of Hell!” Then seething, she demanded, “How could you plot so? With my sister!”

He dared not answer. There was no point, not with her in the throws of rage like this. Reason held no sway in their small abode. Knowing his rebuke and punishment would only follow him into the days to come he bolted from the house, tears streaming down his face.

It wasn’t so much the vitriolic madness that she spouted. That was common enough to hear and always had been. He could tune it out by now. As her voice screached his name he wept that she was his only succor, his own mother.

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