The Storm We Made

Cecily wondered at the damage that would do to one’s soul, to allow others to chip away at you, past the layers of defense, to gain acceptance.

You cannot survive this and live a dead life.

But her idolatry was not blind. The truth of it, she thought, was that men lose interest when the veil falls off and they learn the normalcy of a woman—that she urinates and bleeds and cries and snores like everyone else. But women grow fonder when a man feels within reach. Women do not worship gods; they yearn for broken toys they can mold and imprint on. It was so stupid,

Cecily studied Fujiwara as he studied the notebook paper. A tiny bead of sweat clung to the top of his eyebrow, unusual, as he always looked fresh, as if he had just bathed. Cecily wanted to stick out her tongue and lick it away, taste the hot saltiness.

So they sat together, thin backs wedged against the outside walls of the coop---the coop that had once broken Abel down into little pieces, now the only thing holding Freddie up.

She didn’t know how to tell them that her anger was not at the things they did but at what she herself had done to make everything the way it was.

and how the choices we make reverberate through the generations of our families and communities in ways we often can’t predict. I