Chapter 3 - The Pointed Finger
The mother’s hand hung suspended in the air.
Her fingers were slightly curled, vibrating from the shock of the impact.
A bright, raw redness bloomed across her own palm.
She slowly lowered her arm, extending her index finger.
She pointed it directly at the center of the man's chest.
"That's what you get," she hissed.
Her voice wasn't a scream, but a low, serrated blade dragging across glass.
Tears breached her lower lash line.
They fell hot and fast, cutting clean tracks through the foundation on her cheeks.
The little girl whimpered, burying her face deeper into her mother’s waist.
The wet mud from her forehead smeared heavily across the pristine cream silk.
A dark, ugly stain spread across the fabric.
The mother didn't flinch, didn't pull away.
She pressed her elbow against the child's back, anchoring her closer.
"You let them do this," the mother choked out.
The man on the floor stared at the spreading mud on her blouse.
May you like
He blinked, the skin around his left eye already beginning to swell and darken.
He opened his mouth, but only a ragged breath came out.
