Holy moly. Her eyes teared and her throat surely scarred over from the burn.

As hard as she was trying to destroy her life with liquor, it just wasn’t working well. She set down the mini-bottle-she was going to finish it!-she only needed to take a few minutes to renew her determination.

She sank down in the creaky rocker again, closing her eyes. Maybe the drinking wasn’t going so well, but other things were.

Several weeks ago, she’d mistakenly believed that she wanted to die. Since then, she’d realized that one part of her was alive-totally alive, consumingly alive.

The rage.

All around her was the evidence. Violet had tried to give her a phone, but she’d trashed it. The cottage behind the barns had been built for a great grandmother who’d wanted to live independently, so there was no totally destroying the charm. There was just a front room, bedroom and kitchen, but the casement windows bowed, and the bedroom had a slanted ceiling, and the living room had a huge limestone fireplace with a sit-down hearth. She hadn’t fixed any of it. Hadn’t looked at any of it either. She’d been sleeping on a hard mattress with a bald pillow and no bedding. Cobwebs filled the corners; the floors hadn’t been swept, and the cupboards were empty.

She couldn’t remember the last time she brushed her hair or changed clothes.

Eventually this had to stop. She realized that in an intellectual way, but emotionally, there only seemed one thing inside of her. All she wanted was to sit all day and seep with the rage, steep with it, sleep with it. Fester it. Ache with it. My God. It had been bad enough to lose Robert. Bad enough to wake up in a hospital bed with a face so battered she couldn’t recognize herself, bruises and breaks that made her cry to touch, lips too swollen to talk…and that was before she’d been told Robert was dead.