His hands were bloody claws; dark crimson was still spurting between his spread fingers. Those hands were not used to suffering, or hard work. There were no scars, only smooth lines of flesh now savagely washed clean. The only callus was on his right forefinger, where he held his burlap jug. I know it was a mean thought, a dark and sad thought, but my husband was not a working man; he was a resting man, content to drink corn liquor on the porch. And now he was not even that.
What kind of a wife would have such dark thoughts? I loved him, yes, but that also meant I knew him. What thoughts did he have of me, I wondered. He loved me, yes, but he did not know me. Horror flowed through me as I stared at his pristine red hands, forever and ever stained….