The bottle that meant life or death. The bottle that meant life-gripping illness, paralyzing pain if it was unstoppered. The one that she had received a sound beating for after almost smashing it on the floor. The one she had lived in dread fear of for long years.
–No. No, don't open it!
The stew was boiling. The spiders remained happily in their dusty corners. The owl in the rafters slept soundly. The hag's incantation had proceeded without interruption.
Then:
–Why should I not open the vial? You are useless and ugly! Why should I not? You have never been but a crutch to me.
She hid in the broom closet, cowering on the floor. Pulling on the knob. The dank darkness rancid.
Silence reigned. The old woman was gone. The bottle awaited, on the bookshelf beside the thick tome.
The bottle was in hand. The door was open. She ran straight. Kept running. To where was there to go, else straight? The hovel was behind. Gone. Gone! The bottle was in hand. The dead shrub stood in the whiteness, crows swirling around it. Blind. As the old bag had described it to her.
Her hand found something. Something round. Something rough. Something tall. She fell to her hands and knees. Straight. Straight onward. A hole. The bottle slipped and fit. It could go deep downward.
Straight. Straight back. Back. Back…. Straight back….
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