The Inca Prophecy

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Madalina reached for the vodka. It was unlike her to drink this much, but after what she had just seen, what she had just experienced, nobody would blame her. The rancid liquid blazed its way down her throat, rendering her momentarily stunned. As she choked for breath, she thanked God that soon the poison alcohol would make everything better. Tears impaired her vision as the vodka claimed her control, but she couldn’t tell whether her eyes were watering up from emotion or if they had fallen victim to the onslaught of the neat serving of fire water.

Rapidly she wiped at her face with a shaking hand, finding her wrist wet from the misdirected motor skills she would soon surrender entirely to a drunken state of consolation. Madalina was used to mild trauma, having been through the unrelenting hell of a violent mother all her life, but this was a fresh lashing of upset she was not used to. Sure, she had seen her fair share of domestic violence, but never before had she witnessed such a cruel reprimand visited on a child.

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