The lady is in her usual rocking chair and her sweet dulcent tones helps the young girl she stays concerned about. The lady couldn’t help it. The young one’s sobs got louder, her words became less, her face got paler, her walls bricked higher, her body less functional. That 9 year old always wore full and dark clothes. But those white hairs were enough to alarm anyone about her experience to better not try to fool her.
She looked towards the baby’s window to find the silhouette of her small and loose form in the dark shadows of the worthless room within that wicked house similar to Rapunzel’s tower. She motioned for the girl to scoot closer to the window and she quickly crawled over. She is craving for her soothing touch; the lady knew it the second she spread baby arms at her. But the only thing possible was a gentle hand on her redened and swollen cheeks, the distance and age repulsing them, refusing them to embrace each other in their auras.
“More evils?” the old women questioned the young girl and she nods.
“Were they more bad then before?” she keeps looking at the dark door to make sure none of her parents find them conversing. The little grans are standing on their tip toes; trying to look at the mysterious person who interrupted their fairy tale.
“Yes, they are --- more bad --- every next time” the young baby replies between sobs and the lady presses her finger below her chin to make her look in her eyes.
“But the spirits created the stronger one, didn’t they?” she wipes her tears and the girl nods.
Then the sound of glass crashing followed by heavy footsteps booms throughout the house. She starts shaking; pleading the lady through teary eyes to help her out and that was enough for her granny to leave the room immediately.
The young girl thought that the lady left her, too. What else could she expect? Everyone she begged so far has shown the same response. The door to her room bursts open and she runs over to the corner and curls up in a ball.
“You know you should have died instead of him. Instead of my son. My only son who died because of you. You fucking useless piece of flesh.” He points the broken edge of the beer bottle at her.
She wants to shout at him. Remind him of the accident so that he understands that it wasn’t her fault. But her frightened mind isn't able to order her mouth or her vocal cords to vibrate.
“I want to kill you. I think of it every single passing second. But no. Nooooooo! I am going to give you a really slow but very torturous death. You will be begging me, pleading me, falling to my feet for mercy and it will only remind me of my lost son. And with that you are trapped here, in this hell-hole till your last breath” and with that he raises his hand, about to shatter the glass piece on her head when the door to her room is blown out of it’s hinges. The little life falls limp on the floor with pieces of glasses worming their way into her head and her own blood shampooing her brown hair before gathering around the floor.