The Cast Iron Skillet

“Wake up,” said the Invisible. “They’re home, and he is angry. Be ready.”

The Invisible never lied. So she was awake, ready for the footfall, liquor heavy, and his maddened voice, heady. The front door opened, and slammed closed with a pitiless push. Photograph frames shook loose from nails. Shattered glass scattered. She heard her mother scream.

And she was awake, finally ready…

at the edge her bed with a cast iron skillet meant for his head.



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