The Mother Fury
Cold stone meeting colder bone wrapped thinly in tight flesh, the whispers of dawn, an estranged crackling, and low woeful laughter attacked the senses of a young woman walking alone on the grim stone floor of a carapace cottage. She pressed her too small hands against her eyes, rubbing away the grime of a single night in this, a polluted place. No matter how hard she scrubbed, cold water and rough rags could never take away the stench and mire of this place. Dimly, a fire near death crackled, it whispered it’s foul promises of destruction, sending icy sweat down her face. She knew what this meant, after these five years of imprisonment. Soon, too soon, the nightmares would be replaced with things that would have her begging for the release of some fitful sleep. She had not known peace in these five years, only the dreaded ghosts of what-might-have-been.
