Water From The Well

“Sue! Goddammit Sue, where’s the water from the well?! Goddammit Sue! Godddammit!”

Sue had no legs. In what universe it made sense for her to be the one doing all the work, for her to be the one keeping his lazy ass alive, for her to do all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the chores around the farm, wheeling herself around in her wheelchair while he sat there on his fat ass on the porch swing, she did not know. And Sue did not know what she had done to deserve this.

“Sue! Goddammit Sue, where’s ma water?”

She hated him. She hated him and his soiled undershirt. She hated him and his rolls of fat. She hated him and his tobacco-stained teeth. She hated him for everything he was. For the way he treated her. For the way he’d treated her all these years, even before the accident had taken her legs.

Sue rolled her wheelchair up the uneven boards of the ramp to the porch. The boards wobbled and rattled beneath the wheels. The pail of water from the well sat in her lap, the numbing cold unfelt on her thighs, the contents sloshing unhappily as she propelled herself up the ramp toward the ungrateful bastard she was stuck with.

“Sue! Where’s ma goddamn water, Sue?! I’s thirsty!”

She finished coming up the ramp. She wheeled the chair up in front of the porch swing, right in front of him and his greasy stained undershirt. Right in front of his loathsome fatness and stink of cigarette smoke.

“Well, watcha waitin’ for, there?! Get me a damn glassa water, Sue!”

Sue stared into his eyes, focused and resolute, her rage smoldering inside her.

“You want some water?” she said coldly.

“Yeah, Sue, goddammit, I do!”

“Here’s your damn water.”

She grabbed the back of his head and plunged his face into the freezing cold liquid. He struggled but her arms were too strong for him. It was only when his thrashing ceased that she released her grip, and slowly, softly, began to cry.

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