Crimson Sky

Such thoughts are complicated in my mind and confusion draws me onto paths that I would not otherwise walk. I look up and see a crimson sky as blood then pours from my own eyes. It is brief, yet I know I have to shed blood So that I can be shown all the what ifs. She stands again like a virgin waiting, tied by need to a hobbled gate. Daddy stands there, as he never had in life his shotgun, handed down from his father with its worn wood and smoke dark grey. I keen to the sound of my child’s cry as surely as I had cried as a child, when in a moment he had grabbed and held me by the throat, leaving red bruised marks. Daddy, yet in truth I never called him that He was spun by a mother’s weakness and was just a tool to bend and bruise. I watch him shoot the virgin, me and the blood that pours is clean. The virgin died, long live the virgin slain by her own hand. “Did Daddy die?” I hear her ask. ©EMG05