His Soul to Keep

Fifteen-year-old, dark-haired Victoria knelt at her bed and instantaneously distorted scratches on both her hands, provoking further blood even as she fiercely witnessed the movement strain her arms' striping gouges: she knew these wounds would quell any latent, wrecking qualms of her own vindication. Smiling strengthfully, she prayed,

"Now I've lain him down to sleep,"

Her thoughts convulsed as words in her throat, so she bowed, shuddering to amend once,

"I pray the Lord his soul to keep,"

Measured smile; her voice lowered, drawled,

"And since he died before he woke,

I thank the Lord he was easy to choke."