Evangeline sat, cross-legged, drenched in sweat, trying to produce the words to explain why she had set the fire. Her mouth moved wordlessly.
Dread filled her belly; she lifted her eyes to meet Bill’s. Eyes that bored into her, expectantly. Impatiently.
His hard eyes told her what she already knew; forgiveness would never be offered. The house was going to burn to ashes; living thirty miles from the nearest fire station guaranteed that. How could she explain that she’d rather live in the ashes than in that house with a monster? With him.
Words wouldn’t change anything anyway.
About the Creator
Ferne Pierre
I didn't figure out who I was until I was 40. Circumstances, expectations, the opinions of others, they all bent and twisted together to form a caricature of who God intended me to be.
Writing helps me straighten that out. Music helps too.
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Sometimes I Cry
Hey Mom, I never told you this before, but sometimes I cry over you. Sometimes when I am holding one of my babies in my lap, stroking their hair back from their forehead, I cry. Tiny, wispy hairs, slightly curly, which we inherited from you. I look at their face, their tiny nose, their pursed lips. I dot my finger in the little hollow between lips and nose, soft soft soft, like the petal of a petunia. I look at their perfect fingers, their chubby toes, their clear, trusting eyes. I whisper, “I love you big and big.”
By Ferne Pierre2 years ago in Families
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