Her anger, her hate was almost palpable. Never had she felt such loathing to another, a gentle soul by any measure now turned bitter, wishing untold misfortune upon the man she had met with. She wished him to feel pain, to feel suffering, to bleed from every orifice, but above all she wished his death, and she wished it of herself.
She had already turned away three from her home, not allowing them to cross the threshold, and none of the three protested further than offering concerned words. The fourth time someone knocked upon the door, she did not answer it. The curtains had long been dragged shut, the rooms dark, the fires low. A small milk pail was left upon the steps, the farmer not insisting on being paid.
Bed was her refuge. The blanket her mother had made her when she was a child, now wrapping around the woman, the only thing she would allow to comfort her. Sleep never came, yet she was not tired in the physical sense, her anger keeping her mind from rest. Anger toward him, toward the others, she would wish the same fate on them too, a death so painful and bitter. She vowed never to see him again, never to cross his threshold, never to utter his name in the glowing, forgiving manner she always had before.
The cat knew, its small soft body leaping upon the bed to nestle at her side. It did not insist on being petted, it just lay there, lowering its head, like a sentinel upon a soft blanket. Regardless, the woman stroked the cat, a soft purr emanating from its throat as her reward, and so the two remained till eventually slumber won out.
