THE ACCUSED

Getting to the door of our bedroom, I find this gross woman by the name of Mrs. McCall pacing back and forth.

Upon noticing my presence, she halts her movement to peer at me, and her jaw plummets to the ground at the sight of my fresh wound and the blood washing one side of my face.

Stillness befalls between us for decades. I allow her to compute just how much misery I am bearing as her beloved son's wife. Maybe this will give her a clear image of the kind of woman I am. For those series of moments of pure scrutiny with disbelief, I thought that perhaps the sight before her will elicit some sense of sympathy in her, but that is until she opens her mouth, and all my hopes crumble.

"I guess it's clear enough that you could not do a thing to make your supposed husband talk to us, right?"

If this was the first time I was meeting this woman, I would exonerate her barking and assume that she is blind and that she can't see just what I have got in less than five minutes of attempting to sp