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Liberator of the Oppressed
Violets bloom beneath her blouse, a cop show blares on the TV. His meaty hand grips forearm tight, she whimpers pitifully. Self-control and personal will drown beneath his vicious glare. His hissing curse mocks her plight, twining fingers in her hair. His mouth crushes; glazed eyes close, back to Momma’s kitchen table. Soft sobs escape her swollen lips; her mind shifts and tips unstable. “No, Daddy didn’t mean it, Dear. It was just an accident. Mommy’s arm’s not broken, it’s just a little bent.” Shifting, tipping, turning through stolen, painful years; settling for a moment on open wounds and fears. Whiskey sour bitter breath stains her clean white pillow. Arms, legs and mind go limp like a weeping willow. “I’m okay, see I’m not hurt. Mommy, please don’t cry. I told Daddy to be nice to you, he said that he would try.” Momma’s gone, she can’t be hurt by Daddy’s temper anymore. She remembers purple lips pressed to the bathroom floor. Twisting, twirling, time contorts in her stretched and fragile mind. Peace was found when Daddy died; through death more peace she’ll find. Now they call her murderer, prisoner 5-9-6-3-3. She smiles sweetly through the bars; finally . . . she’s free.
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