Gran stormed across the clearing, bending to pick up a stick from the ground without breaking her stride. Simple, sitting against the woodpile, was in for another of her beatings. I yelled for him to run, but he didn’t hear me. Lost in one of his daydreams I guessed.
I watched in silence as Gran repeatedly swung the stick hard against the side of her son’s head. There were no words to describe Simple’s pain or the pain of watching. He probably didn’t even know what it was for and I hated her for making me feel all the things he couldn’t say. He didn’t move or look her in the face, not until she let the stick drop from her bony fingers did he feel safe enough to close his eyes. He slowly put his hands to his battered head, blood pushing its way through the gaps…
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