# 8 DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT

For a moment, she stood there on the front porch, alone, her arms draped around her body.  The bottom of her eyes felt heavy.  Hoping the east wind too calm her heart, her eyes it drenched instead.

“DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT”

Copyright © 2016 Annmarie Deen & David Alexian

All rights reserved.

Advertisements

# 7 DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT

A gentle breeze caressed her face, her palms and feet moist.  She knew why she was there, but still she felt out of place.  From time to time she treated herself to something nice.  But this, this wasn’t the type of life she was accustomed too, not now, and certainly not before.

“DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT”

Copyright © 2016 Annmarie Deen & David Alexian

All rights reserved.

# 6 DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT

The handrails painted gold, the staircase tiled with stones. There was a little play park to the left in the yard.  No children there at the moment, but it looked nice.

 

“DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT”

Copyright © 2016 Annmarie Deen & David Alexian

All rights reserved.

# 5 DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT

It is nice here, she thought, the children will be happy, her children. At least the neighbourhood looked quiet and safe.

 

“DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT”

Copyright © 2016 Annmarie Deen & David Alexian

All rights reserved.

# 4 DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT

For she wasn’t, she wasn’t living here.  For if she was, it will have only meant one thing.

 

“DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT”

Copyright © 2016 Annmarie Deen & David Alexian

All rights reserved.

# 2 DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT

Like an itch in the palms of her hands, she pauses; looks at the dent, then walks away.  Maybe it reminded her of something, an accident of some sort. But, as you take a closer look, there are no residual paint left from another car, just a dent, that dent, close to the door handle. And, as the driver walks away, her left fist loosens.

 

“DESERTING THIS DAY OF HURT”

Copyright © 2016 Annmarie Deen & David Alexian

All rights reserved.