Leaning weakly against him, face twisted in pain, Margaret trembled as she whispered, “It’s my fault, Jeremiah. I never should’ve come back. I’ll leave.”
“Lainey told me I’m a curse, that I should go die. She… she poured the soup on me…”
“If I hadn’t blocked it with my hand, my face would’ve been ruined…”
Jeremiah’s cold gaze cut through me.
I am in a wheelchair and have difficulty moving around. I am worried that Jeremiah might do something to hurt me.
Panic shook my head as I whispered, “It wasn’t me. I swear it wasn’t me…”
Margaret, tears streaming down, said softly, “Let’s just say Lainey is always right. Brother Jeremiah, please don’t make things harder for her. Maybe she just doesn’t like me…”
Jeremiah said nothing, his expression dark as he carried Margaret away for treatment.
That night, he returned with a kettle of boiling water and stepped into my room. Without a shred of mercy, he poured the scalding water over me.
The 90-degree burn jolted me awake. I tried to crawl away, terrified.
But with my legs powerless, no matter where I fled, Jeremiah followed, pouring again and again.
Exhausted, I finally collapsed, my skin blistering and peeling, raw and broken.