Writing prompt: SACRILEGE
Today is the day the rain on the window sill at night would bring fear, and loathing, and pleading for mercy. But not to me, for once.
It will stop her breath in her lungs, the words in her mouth, the bile in her stomach, and the slaps and kicks she has marked me with, my mother.
That word seems an alien thing. Mother. I have seen bitches take care of their puppies inside the drain under the culvert. She feeds them when they whine, licks them clean, and nuzzles them from time to time.
But not ours. Today when I came back from school, I saw the same welts on my baby brother’s back that I always see on mine in the bathroom mirror. She must have been in one of her drunken rages. Even grown men are scared of her now, of who she becomes when her nostrils flare and her eyes shrink, and from her neck a slow red creeps up to her face.
I have no father, and my uncle, his brother, is the Father at the church. Sacrilege he would call it, wait for God to smite her. I’ll remind her again of her duties, he’ll say, have Faith, my son. But my baby brother is six. My sister, three. They will not live long if she lives, and I cannot wait for God much longer.
I’m fourteen, my ankles and wrists are too long and bony for my clothes, but it is up to me to be the man.
Without her, I’ll have a family. Without her, the world would be a better place. If it is Sacrilege, so be it.
Tonight is the night I’ll stop her.