She sat in her shabby rocking chair on the porch of the askew old farmhouse, holding an ice pack against her left temple. This time he did hit her harder than usual before he had finished the bottle of cheap whisky, and sank down unconscious on his bed.
Her eyes searched the snow covered mountain chain at the horizon. There, far away, so distant, and so unattainable it must be, the little green valley of peace and freedom. Her mother had often told her about it, sheltering her from the violent father.
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