by Marion Dess
“The story I told you. That’s what this scar is from. They grabbed me, and slit my throat. My husband had to watch me bleed out before he died himself. I woke up next to him, his eyes still open, starring at me.”
“I’m so sorry. You don’t have to talk about this,” Winnie whispered. “It’s been a long time, but he’s still the love of my life.”
“Has it gotten any easier?”
“I want to tell you it has, but it hasn’t. It hurts less, it feels far away. Sometimes, still, I’ll see something small, I’ll hear an old Spanish saying, and I’ll think of him and it feels like just yesterday.” She was looking at a photo on the fireplace. It was a trio of small, round sepia photos in a wooden frame. Two men, one woman – Marianna and her family. One of the men was older, in his forties. He looked a little older than Marianna. He had a thick, dark mustache and glistening eyes. He wasn’t smiling, but she remembered all old photos she’d seen and that smiling wasn’t something they did for photos. The other man was much younger, probably 17 or 18. He was clean shaven, and his hair was gelled down and parted to the side. He looked like his father, but somehow he didn’t look as kind. Winnie knew it was because of the story she’d just heard, not because of the picture itself. Marianna looked exactly the same, except her hair was pinned back behind her and her face was completely bare. Today, she wore blush and lipstick, with light brushes of soft eyeliner lining her eyes.
“I know that this is all hard to believe, Winnie,” Marianna said. “I can’t tell you how terrifying all of this was, and still can be at times. I know you’re still struggling. Believe me, it took me thirty years to truly understand that this wasn’t something that was going to change. I think you’ll have to find out for yourself, but we are all here to help you. I understand what you’re going through, all of us do. Some of the girls may be a bit harder to understand and to sympathize with, but they’re good girls. I know this is really hard. I’ve been dealing with it for 200 years, Winnie. I’ve been where you are.”
Winnie nodded. “Can I try some coffee?”
Note
Distributed with all rights and permissions required. All rights reserved.
The End
A story by Marion Dess.
Thanks for reading!