Indian Mom

. somewhere, doing something.Matt and Daddy, two men I admire, urged caution. Patience. Mature stuff like that.Gun sales, at least the kind that Hoffstatter did, were pretty much a wholesale operation. The big guys — arms merchants — sold to entire countries. Or warring factions in countries. They sold everything from fighter jets to tanks to trainers and mercenaries.But selling to Nazi compounds was door-to-door. The various groups shared their venom, their strategies, their propaganda, on likeminded social network sites. And they celebrated their favorite weaponry there too.Not, however, guns with repeating serial numbers. That would draw unwanted attention from unwelcome parties. Of course, the word spread — whisper streams — from compound to compound. But someone — Hoffstatter, maybe Wexler too — had to physically make the rounds. Negotiate prices, quantities, ammunition. And, in Wexler’s case, training sessions for Nazi wannabes.But there were too many Nazi camps, most of them. "I hate you." She sobbed."Good." Billy said, "Because that is the only way it can ever be."And as he closed the door and left her bound and broken, Beth cried again. Not only for her pain but for his, because as he had walked away, she had noticed tears were streaming down Billy's face as well. He had said, Hate me. Because he hated her legacy, her father's mine and the deaths caused by it. The deaths that had left him as he was today, a man who could feel nothing.Billy untied her by nightfall. She bathed and went back to bed. He left her alone upstairs and she remained alone until daybreak. When he brought her food she avoided his gaze knowing to show emotion would mean more torture. He thought she hated him. She ought to hate him, but had somehow forgotten how. He fed her, kept her clean and warm, some of the things he had done to her had been pleasurable. Everything was a lifetime away from how they used to be. She was forgetting Old Beth and New Beth was emerging even though she.
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