3WW: Sad Old Soul (Avenge, Genuine, Ramble)

I remember everything about that day. The dull, dusty heat lingered like a rabid dog’s bad breath. I threw the dolls from my bed and lay there; the perspiration formed in droplets along my forehead and rolled into small puddles by my shoulders. I heard my father’s rambling voice below, his Midwestern drawl reverberating through the paper-thin walls. My door opened slowly, quietly. I pretended to be asleep. There wafted from the doorway the alcoholic mustiness of my great uncle George. A sad old soul plagued with Alzheimer’s he often spoke to me as he did to his wife when she was alive, or so I was told. Uncle George pulled down his pants leaving himself fully exposed and climbed on me, his ancient member flaccid as it touched my inner thigh. He wept the genuine tears of lost love and whispered my great aunt’s name into my ear. After a time his body rolled off the bed; his feet touched the wooden floor. He pulled his trousers up around his thinning waist and exited as quietly as he had entered. The next morning, my mother found him dead in his small twin bed. His dead wife’s namesake avenged.