Trifecta: Ninety-One

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The word this week is "Brand".  The third definition is to be left with a mark, as a rancher would brand his herd.

Inching toward the opened door, I crawled with eager, my hands and knees on the floor. Slowly I moved, silently, in pain. Pulling myself along, quiet, as not to wake him, safety, was but a mere few feet away. Drops of sweat trickled from my scalp, down my forehead and stung my eyes; the sting of sweet revenge felt good.  

Movement!

I lay, still, in wait. A moment of assurance for his continued deep slumber, so desperately needed for a clean escape. His awakening would ruin any chance of flight. Just as I reclaimed my crawl, his arm flew over the side of my bed and dangled, a landmine trip, in front of my face.

Close call!

A still silence, again, filled the room. I was afforded more time and closer I moved toward a final departure. I maneuvered my body through liberty’s freedom door and out of his sights. I brought myself up and I stood. My private, sacred spot, ached and hurt. My body was missing a part; I could tell when I walked. My nightgown torn and spotted with blood, yet another reminder of the night before this day. Grandpa took from me what didn’t belong to him and left, in its’ place, a brand, like no other.

So it came to pass, I walked over to the cabinet and looked through the glass. I took the key, from its hiding place and turned it, opening, full with grace, a sure escape from any further disgrace. I removed the big one, it would do; confident with retaliation, I walked back to my room.

I cleared my throat, loud so he’d wake. He needed to see the consequences of his big mistake. When his head rose, high with surprise, I held his repayment higher, right between the eyes. “You hurt me!” I demanded, and with that, moved the double barrel pointed right between his thighs.

“Oh, baby!” Grandpa cried.

I pulled the trigger and hurt him, right where he hurt me.