The trauma. The fear. The rush of adrenalin felt by the echo of too many bullets. She heard them all, pretending to be the little girl left alone in that cottage on the hill. Army planes soared like eager vultures, finding only the anger of the warring sides to ravage; losing sight of that tiny flame of innocence - hidden, but more mesmerized than afraid.
She felt a splatter of liquid. Not blood. It was the warm soapy water in the washing trough that brought her back to reality. She liked to do that. She turned her daily chores of doing the laundry and the dishes into this game of sounds. The images of war tended to release the pent up emotions that surged through her.
It was all those fights that they had. Sure, she was used to it by now. They started soon after he lost his job at the factory. He ranted and raved in anger as he went about the house. Found too many things wrong. And she kept quiet. Until he left to join the men at the pub. Thats when it all began for her.
1 hour ago