Tragedy is in the Eye of the Beholder
For two nights now she’d hardly slept. Her vigil of waiting for the sounds that signified the beginning of her nightmare was all-consuming. Tonight, it would happen; she understood this, expected it. Inconsolable, due to the inevitability of her situation, she prayed. She had heard him mentioned; this ‘bloody Jesus’, though His name made little sense to her. She thought prayer to Him was like luck or magic, she wasn’t sure which; their likeness lay in her inability to rely on the veracity of their power. Still, she made it part of her fending ritual. Tonight, was dire, no matter how hard she silently begged for a reprieve, it had never lasted more than twice in a row. One night, quiet. Second night, calm. Three nights, no. Never three nights. Relentless. The damage irrevocably rewiring her humanity. The last of the days light seeped out of the small, filthy window. The darkness constricting her now. She lay there trying to sink into the old wooden cot; to become one with the mattress.