Withering Heights

 

The sound of shattering glass pierced the peaceful Sunday afternoon.  Probably another plate – the china cupboard was emptying rapidly.

Upstairs, I could escape mother’s dangerous mood swings.   Her puffy red eyes, replaced in seconds by steam exploding from her ears.  I thought I was the teenager?

Mother thundering up the stairs, bursting into my room in clear terror, shook me from my thoughts.

“He’s here,’ she screamed, tugging the curtains shut.  ‘He’s poisoned the flowers.’

A strange man stood over the dying bush, a razor sharp knife in one hand and the head of a dead flower in the other.

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This piece was created using the prompt hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Addicted to Purple.  

Photo prompt contributed by Marie Gail Stratford.