Dear God,
I hope you’ll understand what I’ve done. I don’t pretend to think I know best what’s good for your people, but I can see when someone’s bad and bad to the bone. I know it’s wrong but I hate him and I’m still tryin to scrub his touch off me every night. I waited a long time to see how you would step in and set him straight but enough’s enough.
I tried to take it one day at a time. Honestly, I did. Just make it through each day, I said. Don’t think about tomorrow, how every day I’ve got to keep secret and shudder under his oily mouth and ungodly words and pretend like I want his eyes on me. How I’ve got to just stand there each night smilin sweet and serve him his rye while he stares at the shape of my breasts under my shirt. God, you know I’ve tried to dress modest ever since it happened. I used to be vain, but I learned my lesson good.
Well when I went into the bathroom after cleanin up and just about everyone left, I had the mace on me like I always have since that night. I can’t explain it but maybe it was you whispering to me to watch it. I just knew he’d be in shortly wantin another go. I was trembling in the stall but I had the mace out and when he opened the stall door BAM I shot it right in his eyes. He stumbled back and I saw my chance. It was like you had this planned out for me and I saw it so clear. He had his hands over his eyes and that solid ceramic pedestal sink was just aching to crack his head. Like you were speaking to me and I knew what you wanted.
He was swimmin in so much whiskey I know you’ll make it look like an accident but I do worry about if they’ll make something out of the mace in his eyes. I’m trusting you God to fix this up and I’m grateful for your divine plan. I do hope you’ll get that sickly thud sound outta my head or at least take away that good feeling I get when I think about that black blood spreading out like oil under his slicked-backed hair. I put my faith in you.
Amen.
*I think it goes without saying, but this is a fiction piece written for 10th Daughter of Memory.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
"As the pain that can be told is but half a pain, so the pity that questions has little healing in its touch. What [she] craved was the darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but compassion holding its breath."
—Edith Wharton
(The House of Mirth)
—Edith Wharton
(The House of Mirth)
I was wondering why your ex never calls me anymore.
ReplyDeleteHmm...
Very good. I like it a lot.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteHAH! Good luck on God taking care of that sickly thud sound in your head :). I am not fooled for one second! This is NOT fiction, is it?
ReplyDeleteHmmm I don't believe in an interventionist God better get a lawyer, better get a good one!
ReplyDeletethe Lord works in mysterious ways...oh, and He helps those who help themselves.
ReplyDeleteToo much! Too vivid! May prayers be answered!
ReplyDeleteWaaaaah... where's my Empathy???
ReplyDeleteBleh.
ReplyDeleteWhere is my empathy?
ReplyDelete