Imploring. Beseeching. Would the image of those children’s eyes, the colour of the wet rocks ever leave me? Those rocks were the only reminder now the sea was calm. It held none of the menace of that day. The small wooden boat floundering in the waves, broken on the rocks. The children struggled futilely, their drowning eyes boring holes into my soul. Now all I wished was for peace. Peace for them and for me. The church hadn’t helped and nor had the psychiatrists they’d sent me to. Sacrifice was my only hope. I pushed my daughter off the cliff.
In response to Rochelle’s prompt for Friday Fictioneers