I didn’t hand the pieces back to Damian. I stood up from the bench and walked over to the large, stone outdoor fire pit situated near the edge of the garden. A small, warm fire was crackling in the basin, burning away the fallen autumn leaves.
I dropped the torn pieces of paper directly into the dancing orange flames.
I watched the cheap printer paper catch fire instantly, curling, blackening, and turning into harmless, weightless ash. The heat pushed the ashes upward, carrying them away on the autumn wind, disappearing entirely into the bright blue sky.
I turned my back on the fire, feeling the warmth on my shoulders. I walked back to the stone bench and sat down, leaning comfortably against my son’s strong arm.
I smiled, taking a slow sip of my tea.
Serena had stood over me, holding a pair of heavy scissors and a smartphone, genuinely believing that those tools gave her absolute, unbreakable power over a “decrepit relic.” She thought she could burn me down for the entertainment of her followers.
But as I watched the ashes of her final, desperate plea float away on the wind, leaving no trace behind, I realized the most beautiful, terrifying truth for narcissists everywhere.
When you try to use the spotlight to burn an innocent woman, you shouldn’t be surprised when her son uses that exact same light to build your electric chair.
Przeczytaj więcej, klikając przycisk ( DALEJ »» ) poniżej!
