Tuesday, April 14, 2009

The Clergyman. Pt. 1

It was horrible.
The door creaks open to an eeriness so overwhelming that son and daughter stand aghast to reclaim clear thought. Normally there lay about a damp skin of untouched dust. Its departure shed an insight into the recent happenings of not just their home. Plates lay broken and books torn open. The clock hadn’t even struck (but had been) and the ringing in their heads was excruciating. An overturned couch and an upsided kitchen chair led to clues about pushing, shoving and possibly, hopefully, self-defense. Photo’s once placed with love; their frames smashed into shards of a mere memory and with clumps of hair now decorating the room like age-old spider webs, always being swept but never to go away.

As son took his first step he saw the twisted body lying dormant upon the rubble. Another attack awarded by father. How could they compete? He was brutal. Attacking their fears with hatred and clenched fists. Where was he now? Son anticipated the next move, but there seemed to be no more brutality for the moment. As he eased toward mother the hatred burned upon his face and blood settled amongst his footsteps. Mother seemed as unconscious as death itself. The harsh reality of today’s battle set a final thought in all of the bruised. The next storm to hit would be theirs.

© Anthony Moore 2000.

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