Forlorn by Tony Norton

Lost in the graphite charcoal shadows of half hidden worlds on the wrong side of Murderous Midnight.
A Sterile backdrop.
The Flickering hum of a twitching winking strobe of the hypnotic cold kitchen strip light.
Sitting ….stunned…..traumatised.
Detached She gazes vacantly into the vacant space
Next to her lies a black mirror pool of dark coagulating gelatinous blood.
Iron smell of aging hours old blood and excrement cloyingly hangs in the balmy hot night air.
The whir and click of the refrigerator keeps snapping its fingers dragging her back to a semblance of reality. Her reality, only confirmed by her shallow deliberate quiet breaths.
The Amber stage limelight providing a dirty orange glow, gloomily illuminating the murderous celluloid scene.
Towering Acts of a Shakeapearianesque tragedy pitifully played out to the only possible forgone critical conclusion.
Quiet…. Now.
Damage Done.
She sits staring at her hollow past. This, the culmination of years of systematic abuse put to an end right here, next to her on the cold judgemental linoleum.
Her past lying dead next to her.
A twinge of pain in her bleeding broken ass hole sends a waking wave of electrical justification, appeasing her tormented questioning thoughts.
The scene, re run again and since played out a thousand times in her aching head.
Frantically Searching …..
Searching desperately, for a different outcome….. but always reaching the same sickly thudding conclusion.
Too much…it was too much this time.
Violated and broken once too many a time.
Naked from the waste down, hair matted with dry blood and neck stinking of rank mouthed beer breath.
Her waif like body covered in a uniform of angry bruises and bite marks of varying ages and severity..
Hammered so many times..
Queue ironic fate.
Fate stepped in and lent a hand. Played it’s murderous part. As she helplessly leaned broken onto the kitchen table to help get her back to her feet she inadvertently placed her hand on the steak hammer left there, used to tenderise the meat for the attempted peace-offering earlier.
The first blow landed on the back of the skull as he walked away from her.
He spun around with a disbelieving incredulous look in his dark eyes. Like a marionette with severed strings he began to lurch and jerk on failing legs.
The next double-handed blow landed from a wider arc on the temple dislodging hair with some skull bone fragments  attached and felled him like a lumbered redwood. He lay twitching  and convulsing on the kitchen floor his lifeblood, moaning and leaking – oozed out of him.
Two hours later, in the longest night of her life she still sat still in silence. The gravity of the situation much too much to contemplate in the deep dark of night.
Mornings Cold unforgiving light would bring the clarity of undeniable truth. Whatever tomorrow would  bring it would remove uncertainty. The uncertainty gone and the possibility of her making another tomorrow.
She would stand and face the future no matter what.
No remorse.
No remorse, she had sent him straight to Hell.
He belonged there.
She was beaten bloodied and violated but remained unbroken.
Her only regret ….that she hadn’t done it sooner.
In the clinical unforgiving inevitable morning, fates wind would blow in the future breeze of change.


Written by Tony Norton @iwilltwittowho

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

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