The end of July heat was suffocating Brea. She tossed and turned, feeling
smothered by the sheets, the room, and her own troubled thoughts. Sliding out of
bed she walked across the room to the window, hoping for a stray breeze.
Moonlight filled the night sky, twining its luminous beauty into the dark
landscape of her grandfather's farm. Looking out across the pasture she watched
moonbeams skip across the surface of the pond. The promise of cool water
beckoned.Why not? Grandpa was asleep and the heat was unbearable. She pulled on a pair of shorts then tiptoed through the house without turning on the lights. The screen door in the kitchen squeaked as she pushed it open and stepped out onto the porch. Brea held her breath until the loud snort from Grandpa's room returned to its familiar snoring cadence. She couldn't face another round of his anger.
Brea touched her bruised cheek, remembering the back of Grandpa's hand as he struck out at her. In her whole life he'd never struck her.
His words hurt worst than the slap. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think nobody would tell me?"
Read more of "The Cinderella Myth" by Sandra Seamans.
