By A. Garrett Jacobs
Sona barely registers how downhill it went until she sinks onto the mattress, bag landing with a thud. The blade falls from her blistered hand.
Sensations flood back. Cold metal on palm. Shrieking, arguing. Blood splattering. Bolting, cash flying out.
He was bad news, she thinks.
Small comfort.
She tries to remember the brother who read her stories every night. Who filleted bluefish with her off the Hudson. Who unwrapped sandwiches from the foil, savoring the scent of smoked ham.
Instead she conjures him as a monster raving about ruined plans as she grips the knife, manifesting the courage to swing.
There is so much violence in most relationships , throughout the world, including written lines .