No Rest For the Wicked

They tell him repeatedly how evil he is. They should know. Words of accusation, of hurt, pain and torment whirl around him, suffusing the air. Others whisper sweet nastinesses in his ear. They anger quickly, tell him what he already knows; he’ll never be good or pure enough—never be what she needs.

Curling tightly, knees against his chest, hands covering his ears in a vain attempt to block them out, his eyes close. Rocking gently he hums a soft sweet lullaby, trying not to see the twisted, bitter face of the woman who used to sing it to him.