She showers for the seventh time that morning. She can’t seem to wash away the filth, the blood, the semen.
Tears fell as she wept over the stolen jewels and smashed wedding photos. The broken glass from the bedroom window was scattered. Outside.
Acquitting him on a technicality, they sentenced her to life looking over her shoulder. No parole. Her only appeal was a single bullet.
“Check for monsters,” she used to say. “In the cupboard. Under the bed.” It never occurred to her that the monster was the person checking.
Parson spread the word: be born again. His daughter also spread and he caught us. After the shotgun blast, perhaps I will be born again.
His grimy hands are all over my body. I scream, “Don’t do this?” Years later he’s on trial; my mother blind to reality sings his praises.