Bloody Heart

All alone inside the sacred kingdom of the Lord, already there, was she, lingering. The sound from the tick-tocking big brown old clock, the flowing pale rose like drapes from the unshut window: there she was, kneeling and begging; however, her face was unspeakable, her eyebrows twitched while biting her dry lips. Every Sunday, she would arrive two hours earlier and starts kneeling; she was religious, bright, and active inside the congregation, always she asked things she didn't comprehend from the book and always ended with a bow and, "Thank you!" While listening to the minister's words, she would always check the clock every fifteen minutes, stare at it for thirty seconds, and start tapping her heels silently.

The gathering started to stand up and greet each other with those church smiles, and noises from different conversations began to build up after the church bell tolled. A big woman, wearing a delicate dress and gloves, as well as a hat: walked right in front of her and communicated, "would you care for a cup of tea this afternoon, Mrs...?" her eyes looked at her, waiting for an answer.

"Oh my! You needn't address me properly, Ms. Windy. Just call me Edith, and I'll be fair," she grinned. "So I shall be expecting your grace before noon, aye?" her eyes filled with a sense of domination verified the answer at the end, "much obliged! Mrs. Windy. I'll be there."

Inside the household of the Holmes, her husband Blythe was waiting for her for supper. She was thirty minutes late, making her husband sit at the wooden dining table alone, dumping the unfinished dishes on the basin with no care whatsoever. Meanwhile, inside the pleasant crib of Windy Locke, both souls gossip with green tea on both palms of their hands.

"Didya' know what happened to that las?" she cried, chuckling. "No, I don't know," she uttered, then took a lady-like sip. They'd been talking for an hour, and Mrs. Edith forgot that his husband was preparing for supper that day. Mrs. Edith interrupted their discussion and thanked Ms. Windy for her bestowed grace afterward. She stood up, then held her skirt, and bowed.

Everybody noticed her walking fast and steadily down the road, holding a big and fancy purple parasol. She entered the homestead without breath, looking for something; she rumbled inside the stead and stopped at the opened window, and the sound of wood splitting with the heavy tension of the wood chopper caused her eyes to lit up with a fearful gaze. She looked frightened; however, she suddenly took a deep breath and calmed herself. She looked at me and grinned, "don't worry, son, everything will be okay. I promise." Then she kissed me on top of my forehead. She observed the living room and grabbed something; she bashed the head of Blythe's mutt while sleeping and hit it until it never moved. Then she instantly seized a glass of water, poured it into the poor mutt's water holder, and put it beside him. Then her mien changed. She ran furiously to the back door and cried, "Blythe! Oh! Blythe! Gubbins is not breathing! Come now! Hurry!" He whipped the ax on the ground and dashed to the kitchen door at the rear part of the house.

Blythe bawled, crouching on the floor like a baby, hugging its mutt, breathless. "Deborah! What have you witnessed, tell me at once?" he cried with tears. "I have not touched the dog at all!" exclaimed she, "when I arrived, I put down my parasol and drank water cause I had rushed to get here. I remembered what you said earlier this day, that thee will cook supper in the middle of the day," she crouched with him and held his hand, crying: "My Blythe, he will be remembered." Blythe stood up, patting the dust all over him. It was the last of their conversation.

It's been four long days since they've spoken to each other. I always see papa outside the house, sitting on a root of an old pine tree, smoking a cigar. And in the afternoon, he would stand by the fence looking at the field's horizon, waiting for an answer, I suspect.

One afternoon, When I prepared supper, I subpoenaed him, expecting his presence at the dinner table, but he refused. I went beside him and questioned why "you have not been eating for almost two days—come now, papa. Let's eat," I held his hand. However, I was pulled back by his substantial disagreement on his feet. I can't carry an old man. What am I thinking?

Abruptly, a thud was heard across the golden field of wheat, which forced him to see the unexpected occurrence. An immense black raven with a purplish and greenish tone on both wings was bloody, on a flattened part of the field, trying to flee back. The ears of the wheat are all bloody, combined with the motion of the wind toward the west. "Papa, What is that?" It was squirming and screeching. Papa went to the fowl, lowering his body and petting the raven's skull. It tranquilized down, at first. Then I took a step in front; it thrust my papa's right hand, which caused his blood to boil. Then an unformed stone went to the head of the fowl.

That night was rough, and so was the day after; he was at full strength, rumbling and non-stop ranting. Edith was finished by the attitude she's been receiving from Blythe, three full days without a single conversation with each other; she seized a moment to talk to Blythe and ended it with violence. At the final part of their conversation, Blythe thwacked a strong motion across Edith's poor, strengthless face, which caused her to move away from his presence. She looked at him with a soulless expression, and her eyes cried a bucket.

As the time progressed to midnight, I, alone, wandered inside the house with a small body of a candle: I saw papa sleeping in the lounge, shirtless and wheezing heavily. Then I tiptoed my way to my mother's chamber, and the entry was ajar; I saw her slightly swaying, holding her latest frock onto her body. Why is she dancin' in the middle of the night? Then, it sounded like there was a thud in the living room, and she responsively scrunched the dress and ditched it inside her wardrobe. I checked the living room; it was just papa, and he had fallen from the sofa. I went back to my room and slept in disarray.

The following Sunday, mama and I went to church, leaving papa behind; he was still dreaming, but before we took off, I told mama, "go forth. I forgot my tithe." Then she went on. After about a minute, I grabbed my tithe and followed her.

After four hours of worshipping the words of Christ and begging for salvation, then seeing those church smiles again, we went home. In the midst of walking the trail towards our property, our house was swarmed by people but mostly our neighbors, and there were also patrol groups scrutinizing inside the house. One man testified outside the property, crying, "I came here to return Blythe's tools. I borrowed it yesterday and told him 'I'd give it back tomorrow, Sunday morning,' and he told me to 'use it as long as I can.'" Mama burst inside the house with authorities and shouted, "I am the wife inside this property. What are you doin' here?" Then she saw her husband in the corner of her eye, stabbed in the heart with a carver. Her legs weakened, and she could not stand up; she burst into tears. A big black man with ocean eyes and a gun beside his pocket told mama that he's been dead for about 3 to 4 hours or so." Then she screeched. 's

Roughly one in the afternoon, the property's atmosphere calmed down; mama and the black man greeted each other and bestowed grace for helping us above the threshold. They both shook hands, and when mama turned back, heading towards the living room, the black man unexpectedly stopped mama and questioned her, grinning, "When you saw the dead body this afternoon Mrs. Holmes, did you go near it? or touch it" mama said no to the weird question he asked. The black man grabbed mama's whole body down, dragging it to the floor, then tied both of her hands down.

Out of the blue, the black man saw a mark on mama's latest flock, dried blood on the back tail of her dress.

Then that was the last time I saw my mama. She earned it.