When the red mist lifts, as lift it surely will, he will be consumed with regret.
But for now, the thrumming of his rage, the clenching and unclenching of his fists, the drumming of his heels… this is the fodder for his blackened soul.
A thin sliver of light permeates his narrowed eyelids, gently raising a curtain on his despair. He struggles to his knees, stumbling from the wrecked porch, reaching for her.
She’s not there… that’s nothing new.
But the gaping mouth of the disused well, the cover cast aside… now that’s something else.
The last week of September – how quickly the year has passed. Thanks to Rochelle for leading the Friday Fictioneers through another summer.