The light inside the tiny cell in county lock up glinted and reflected against the muted steel of the toilet. Mrs. Weedgrass crossed her legs tightly in defiance and drummed her knotted knuckles against the edge of her cot.
She felt caged. Like an animal. Like those drunks she always saw on the corner of Calhoun and Creighton. She wasn't one of them. She only goes there for her charity work. She leaned her back against the cinder wall and sighed heavily, the weight of her situation settling someplace between her shoulders and lower back. Funny, she couldn't feel anything inside.
In the distance, she could hear the night time rustlings of women and men chatting and barking orders. She could hear the buzz of monitors, doors heavily swinging open and shut, mouths blurting out sounds like "Number 4, this way." At one point, she thought she heard a woman protesting, but perhaps she imagined it.
Mrs. Weedgrass had no idea why she was even worried about her trial. She had gone through this several times, each time a bit more serious - each time a bit easier to lie through. God told her to do things. He told her her son was a bastard from Satan. So she raised him and loved him that way. What else was she to do?
Afterall, even Jesus was crucified, right? Better to go down in Christ than not to go down at all, she supposed.
She didn't know he was going to go and shoot that girl. That stupid, stupid, nosy girl. He had always threatened to use his father's gun, but it had always been to fire it on himself, never to gun someone innocently down in a public place like this. And how in the hell is that her fault? she wondered.
Her son died because he committed suicide and assault. He tried to murder. She always knew he was a bad seed and how else could she have raised him? What did people expect when your son is a spawn of hell and worse yet, you know it at infancy?
She tugged at her whitening hair and wondered about Alana. Beautiful, successful Alana. She was curious if Alana would show up this time. Maybe she'd wear that gorgeous suit she bought her in Abilene.
Mrs. Weedgrass glanced over at the toilet again. She crossed her legs more firmly. Best to keep them closed in a sinful place like this, she muttered lowly feeling the electric 'sssshhhh' of her pantyhose rubbing together.
She really needed to go.
Badly.
No comments:
Post a Comment