Two women

They stand side by side in the road, not touching though they have only each other. The trees, caught by the gale bend and sway, shrieking in anger. The mother turns and looks back at the house through the quaking pine branches, and she leans, almost imperceptibly, her back to the wind, letting it catch her steps to push them back the way they have come.

“No!” her daughter screams above the rising wind. “It’s finished. We’re not going back.”

The woman hangs her head, hiding her face as if sheltering it from the lashing rain. Her daughter knows better, knows that her mother’s eyes will be full of tears.

“He’s a pig and you know it!”

The daughter stands firm against the gale, glaring at the black clouds and the squat house where the windows are dark. She waits but she will not give her mother her arm.

Reluctantly, the woman turns away from the house, her home, her life, bracing herself for the force of the wind, the storm, and her daughter’s anger. Stifling a sob, she takes the first step and feels herself break with the effort.

Rain slashes their faces, and the wind tears at their coats. The woman raises her arms in a feeble gesture of helplessness and her feet shuffle to a stop. Only then does the daughter notice that the shoes are split, old, and that her mother has no others. Only then does she take her mother by the arm and urge her firmly but gently down the road that neither of them has ever walked before. At either side, the ditch has filled, and the road is rapidly becoming a raging river. More than once, the woman stops and her chest heaves with the effort. She looks like a dog at the end of its chain, her daughter thinks.

The downward path has twisted and turned five times; she has counted each one. There can be no more than two, three turns at most, before they reach the bottom where the town lies. The house is behind and above them now, its dark eyes turned to the valley below. She feels its presence even though it is long out of sight among the enraged forest trees, and she cannot believe she is really free of it.

She feels the rumbling before she sees the car and pulls her mother to the side of the road. Her mother stops in her tracks, trembling with terror. Headlights, a livid yellow, plough through the slanting rods of rain and blind them both. The car swerves to a halt behind them and a door slams.

“Get in.” Her father’s voice, a bark, his bulk black and massive against the light. “I said, get in!”

Her mother whimpers, her limbs jerking to obey the command, but her daughter, coiled tight like a spring, grabs her arm.

“No. We’ve had enough. We’re not going back.”

She says no more, doesn’t wait to see the effect of her words, just tries to drag her mother away, down the road, away from the car, the bulk that stands in the headlights, away from the old life. The woman moans and hangs heavy on her arm, a dead weight, but her daughter is merciless, like her father. The girl knows what will come next, and she possibly wouldn’t have avoided it even if she could. The bulk of her father bears down on them through the beam of light, a dark, pitiless mass. His hand reaches out to grab her mother’s shoulder, spinning her round, and as she turns, his other fist makes contact with her face. The girl’s mother sinks to her knees without a sound. With relief almost. This is how she had expected it would end.

For the girl though, this is what she has been waiting for, dreaming of for so long. She bares her teeth in a grin, of desperation and desire, and pulls the pistol, his pistol, from her coat pocket. The headlights shine in her eyes. He is just a black mass against their brilliance. But at point blank range she can’t miss.

The sound of the detonation is lost in the first crack of thunder, as the storm breaks overhead. The dark bulk deflates and crumples, and the two women are bathed in unblinking yellow light.