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The bottles sit on my mother’s nightstand. Her pills. Her addictions. Does she think I don’t know? The ravager beats her when he’s sober, violates her when he’s not. A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping. Escape comes only through the mouths of those little orange containers.
Hope is despoiled.
The pillowcase on my mother’s bed is stained with countless tears. And blood. Her blood. Brown and unbending. Refusing comfort. It whispers a morbid testimony of clutching fingers, jagged breaths. She buries her sobs in threadbare fabric as the ravager does unspeakable things. I know. Thin walls keep no secrets.
Pain is everlasting.
Last night she locked her door. The ravager thundered. Demonic fury. I didn’t think to. The bottles, empty now. A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because her children are no more. I swallow the powdered remnants.
Jeremiah 31:15 New International Version
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