Wheeling Gull Isle haiplana

A shell. A broken, beaten, battered shell of the woman that he once knew as their mother. No more than bones, skin and white fur streaked with ginger down her backside. Her backside which he now straddled as he grabbed her by the back of the neck and pushed down to hard that he might crush the air from her windpipe on the other side. 

A shell. A broken, empty shell of the boy that once danced at his mother's heels, singing of the glory of God. Likely driving her mad as he flood her with questions of all, any and everything he had ever known about their heavenly father. 

Tears streamed down his cheeks now in rivers. He could not see beyond the salt of his own making and all that anger of his mother having brought in more pups which had ripped their family apart, the disbelief of his mother's abandonment, the anguish of loosing his brother and father, having nearly starved to death in winter as he waited for a family that was no longer there, all went into the tightening of his grip and force of his push. To suck the life out of her the way she had sucked the happiness from him.