On sins. On bitterness.

This is a little much, kay?


Martha had fallen into an uncomfortable sleep, one where the past bubbled beneath her eyes and her stomach was churning with distaste and where a large fist of doubt lay in her ribs. It was the sleep of misery that her sister Doris had warned her about- the sleep of no sleep at all. A sleep for those who had sin cast upon them, and thus was marked with sin themselves. But Martha was only restless for a few hours before She came in, cool, liquid almost, and always calming, always charming. She placed a delicate pinky on Martha’s nightgown, right below her chest, and Martha grew still. She knew what to say. She whispered because she was saving her voice for a bigger night. She told Martha that She could hear her suffering from the neighbor’s kitchen while the T.V. was on. She said She had stopped working on a pot roast to come to her. She told Martha that sin causes sin and reminded her that love has no bitterness. And that was something Martha really needed to remember. And then She touched Martha’s hair, so it shifted as it would shift in the wind, and told her not to worry. She reminded Martha to celebrate everything, something that Martha was already good at. She then turned on the nightlight and shut the door, leaving Martha in a dream where Martha was singing a song she had once known from heart.

And on a completely different note:




Anna, over and out.