Through the Screen Door

Wanda saw it through the screen door, her glass of lemonade dripping condensation onto her fingers. First, the fence exploding. Then her husband, Ray, going down under that mountain of gray muscle. She should have screamed. Run. Called for help. But her feet were rooted. She watched, breath held, as Brutus tore at Ray’s jeans, the fabric giving way like tissue. Ray’s face was turned toward the house, his expression not pure terror, but something stunned and slack. Wanda’s own breath hitched. A slow, liquid warmth pooled low in her belly, her nipples tightening against her sundress. She didn’t move. She just watched.