By Kim Krodel
The lock is tight, but the hinges are rusted. I look around the dusty attic floor for a possible tool. The heel of my boot is the best option. I stamp down and see the metal twist. Closely, I inspect my work. Still unbroken.
I strike again and the rusty metal splits, slicing the skin on my ankle.
“Ouch!” I kick the chest in spite, and the old top pops open.
She is wrapped in rotting lace. The fine bones of her hands are a calcified pattern, intricate as the woven cloth that crumbles under my touch.
I can’t stop. I slide my fingers between the bony digits. Somehow the cold grip is firm, insistent.
“My niece,” she breaths, her words a solemn gust of winter wind in the stuffy attic.
“Your instrument of revenge, Aunt Adelaide.” The voice is mine, but hollow. A weak electric current vibrates through me, pulling my muscles. I take the knife beside her.
I walk back down.
- Monday Mingle vlog May 7th – Scars, features and mayo (eightymphmom.com)
- Kraft Miracle Whip embraces a love/hate relationship in real time (thecontentlab.icrossing.com)
- How to Organize Your Attic (apartmentguide.com)