Letting Go
A Young Woman Is Engulfed In Rage
I look out on the English moors,
Sweeping languidly in the fresh spring breeze
I gazed from the prison of my room and run fingernails down my face
Making certain the blood raised to the top of my skin and drizzled down my pallid cheeks.
Downstairs life was animated and fuelled with sustinence for engery.
I collapsed once more upon my bed and pulled covers tightly around me.
Still, the hatred in my soul tore at my stomach to come screaming out.
A voice sliced into the pillow-thick softeness of my room: "Sarah, don't you want your breakfast again?"
The morning rituals had begun and Sarah turned inward into her silence.
She held the knife in her left hand, caressing it as if it were a newborn baby.
"This is my "Norman Bates weapon", she whispered to the stuffed toys in the corner of her room.
Stealthily, Sarah descended the stairs and cautiosly padded into the kitchen where her parents swallowed the last of their coffee.
There was mother, slim and beautiful at thirty-six. How could she compete with such pristine perfection?
Tip-toeing into the perkily sunny room, Sarah raised the knife as her father sat perusing the newspaper.
He never had the opportunity to cry out in shock and inherent disbelief.
Mother was next, though she put up the fight of her life.
"Why, Sarah? Why?" she managed to choke out before death overcame her and left her limp and bloody on the pretty pink tile floor.
Was she remorseful when the police came? No, not one iota.
Now there would be no more of that sickening melage et troi.
.....It was over at last.
