Comments (0) Issue 1, Poetry, Writing


Jaime Lyn Twombly


She was gripping the railing as if she would fall and crash to her death if she let go. Her knuckles turning white, blood rushing from her face leaving a pale and empty mask behind. He was staring at her, the guilt written on his face like scarlet letters, his shame obvious to the world. For a moment it seemed as if she might say something. Instead she lifted a hand and smacked him hard across the face. The sound of her rage echoed down the hallway so loud, I felt it on my own face. He stumbled backwards, lost his footing and reached out to her for support. She did not reach for him. Instead she watched him tumble down the staircase. Instead she listened to him scream, and heard the crack of his skull making contact with the floor. She watched him slip out of this world and into the next so silently, and I, huddled behind the doorway, saw it all.

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