It was Ash Wednesday. Cecily never enjoyed Lent. Every year it was the same. Every year, for six weeks, she gave up butter. No butter on her toast in the mornings. 122 more words
Tags » Tales
The place reeks of alcohol, cigarettes, fear, and desperation.
From the doorway I see pieces of broken glass and splinters of furniture, paired with the quivering voice of a crying daughter, but my eyes fixate on the woman, supine in the middle of the room, statuesque in her immobility. 387 more words