She sits there, slowly
rocking.  There is no sound but the
gentle creaking of her rocking chair as it rolls against the old wooden porch.  It sounds peaceful.  She looks peaceful with her flowery skirt draping
over her knees, slender ankles crossed in front of her.  Her eyes are closed, and her face is
calm.  The gentle smile on her lips is
peaceful.

She sits there, slowly
rocking.  The only grating sound is the
constant rocking against a tired wooden porch.  It is not mighty or strong but it is always,
always pushing down, hard lashes against the weathered floor boards.  The sound is constant, ugly, dull, and her
eyes are closed tightly but her ears cannot drown out that unforgiving sound,
forever crushing tiny splinters in the old wooden porch.  She keeps her hands demurely in her lap, with
her left hand buckled over her right wrist.

She sits there, slowly
rocking.  The only sound is the pathetic squeaking
of the rocking chair against the floor; a sound of weak submission to the never-ending
motion. The floor boards squeak under the weight of a forever-rocking chair,
and it is barely audible or noteworthy.  And her left hand covers the bruise on her
wrist.

She sits there, and stops the
rocking.  She stops the endless rocking
against the old wooden porch.  She sits
their peacefully with her hands in her lap and her eyes closed.  She has a peaceful smile on her lips.  But she sits there and won’t get up because
there’s not one man that would ever think she didn’t deserve it.  Not one man.

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