When I finally die, my prison will fall with me. It will pull me apart, branches and roots tearing my bones from my body. And if I cry out as we collapse together, my prison and I, it will not be a cry of pain or fear but the joyful shout of a child at play, one who does not know where her life will lead or how many years ahead will be wasted in anger.
My last breath as the ceiling breaks open wide will be a gasp of awe. The rafters will crack, the chimney will tumble, and above me there will be a sky of the most perfect blue. Before the river swallows me I will feel, for a moment, the warmth of the sun.
I fling Nell’s teacup into the fireplace, followed by mine. The crash of our mother’s porcelain on stone is so satisfying I laugh aloud as I throw the teapot. The steam that rises from the sizzling fire is rancid, then sweet.
© Copyright 2020 Kali Wallace
Kali Wallace - [BCS301 S01] Page 2
