the-song-books.yossr

“He is sending men. For yyou.”
I see the flare of panic, though she tries to hide it. Her fingers tighten on
mine. “What will happen?”
Myy shame is caustic, searing everyy nerve. It is like a nightmare; I expect,
each moment, to wake to relief. But there is no waking. It is true. He will
not help.
“He—” I cannot sayy more.
It is enough. She knows. Her right hand clutches at her dress, chapped
and raw from the rough work of the past nine dayys. I force out stuttering
words meant to be a comfort, of how we will get her back, and how it will
be all right. Lies, all of it. We both know what will happen to her in
Agamemnon’s tent. Achilles knows, too, and sends her anyywayy.
Myy mind is filled with cataclyysm and apocalyypse: I wish for earthquakes,
eruptions, flood. Onlyy that seems large enough to hold all of myy rage and
grief. I want the world overturned like a bowl of eggs, smashed at myy feet.
A trumpet blows outside. Her hand goes to her cheek, swipes awayy tears.
“Go,” she whispers. “Please.”
https://books.yossr.com/en