Broken Pattern

Thought I’d give this 100-word thing a whirl on a peaceful, rainy Sunday.  For some reason the thought of a person confronting a childhood abuser has been knocking around in my brain.  I don’t  think I would want to stay in that world long enough to write a more detailed story about it. 

She didn’t recognize me, clearly.   A thin smile, blank eyes as she passed.   Memories flashed.  A crowded stale-smelling bed, hunger pangs, shouting.   A door slam as she left for the night.

I grabbed her arm.  Angry eyes met mine.  Fearful recognition.

Voice shaky, she swore how much she’d changed.  All lies.

A car sped by.  I imagined flinging her into its path.  Relief, knowing we didn’t breathe the same air any longer.

Another flash.  My daughter, happy, thriving, waiting with the sitter.  I dropped her arm.  It hung limply at her side as she watched me pass, free of regrets.

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