Safeguarding.

Brenda Black

Brenda Black was huge, a vast and spiteful mountain of hate, whose raucous laugh could be heard for miles, whose sickly smiles never reached her windowed eyes, the flicked-up glasses making  her pasty face mean and sly. Fat cat.

Massive thighs made the skies flash and spark when they rubbed together in fatty friction, clad in Renee Gwylim’s  twenty denier American Tan. Tights, never slinky stockings for that lump of lard, for no matter how  hard she tried, would never be desirable for any man. Even her own.

She smelled. Of unwashed and undisclosed horrors.

Brenda would enter the room as if to consume the occupants, but sweetly and sycophantically smoothed on the slime with generosity, always with one lascivious eye on the lime cheesecake or the apple pie.

Fat cow.

Handy with the slap, vicious with the verbal taunts, her ridicule rippled from those chalky 60’s apricot lips...

Dermatitis scaled her podgy fingers, angry and red, like the focus of her furious mind which settled with noxious intent on that poor child.

A terrified six-year old wretch, anxious and careful, fearful and fretting for her own. Feeling lost and deserted, forsaken, hurting deep inside her innocent little soul.  Confused and shattered, pining for all that mattered in her whole life. For she was without guilt.

She does not wish her ill, or hope she rots in hell.

Because she will.