Post by deeannuhhh on Jun 7, 2006 13:45:44 GMT -5
"You have got to be kidding me."
She turned the key again and squeezed her eyes shut in a wordless prayer.
Nothing.
Once more, this time whispering repeatedly, almost silently, "Please, God... please.."
The only sound that rewarded her chant was the clinking of keychains against each other as she turned the key; forward, then back, and forward once more.
"Perfect," she muttered, letting her head fall forward until her forehead rested on the steering wheel, "Just perfect."
Sitting there, hopeless, a shimmer of metal caught her eye. Grasping it in the palm of her hand, she could barely make out the inscription on the keychain's worn surface. She didn't need to read it, however; she knew the message by heart.
To Lauren, my guiding light. Love always, Tim.
The 8 words replayed themselves over in her mind, taunting her.
She let her fingers trace over the heart shape of the trinket before dropping it as if it had burned her.
She turned the key again, once more in vain.
Sitting up straight , she dared to steal a glance in the rearview mirror. Her tears from earlier that evening had left smoky mascara streaks in a maze on her sunken face. She absent-mindedly licked a finger and rubbed at the dark stains across her cheeks. In the pale moonlight, the greenish bruises around her wrist reflected in the mirror and seemed to appear as stray shadows.
If only.
An involuntary shiver reminded her of the cold that was inescapable in mid-january. She tore her eyes from the mirror and ran the heel of her hand across each cheek in a last effort to remove the charcoal traces.
Exhaling heavily, she pulled the handle of the door and pushed to open it. It stuck; she jolted it with her shoulder and it flung open, letting in the brisk night air.
She carefully extracted herself from the vehicle's interior, her body growing stiff and sore from the bruises and the frigid air. She didn't bother to remove the keys from the ignition.
Down the road, a streetlight flickered in and out of conciousness; it seemed to give the road a foreign mood. As if she hadn't lived here for years, had not traveled this road more times than she could count.
In the pulsing light, the cloud her warm exhalation formed reminded her of the fact that she hadn't had a cigarette in nearly 12 hours. She pushed the thought away; nicotine was the furthest thing from her mind at this moment. She had to find a way out. Out of this yard, this house, this relationship. Clearly, it wouldn't happen tonight.
*************************************************************************************************************
The sunlight filtered persistently through the curtains and the blinds hanging in the window of the master bedroom, and she squeezed her eyes shut in a feeble attempt to block out the intrusion. Rolling over and pulling the quilt over her head, she exhaled silently and attempted to nestle into the too-firm matress. She pictured herself on a near-deserted beach somewhere where her only worries were sun-screen and the plot of the steamy romance book she had her nose buried in. Her attempt in vain, the faint clicking of a keyboard in the next room rang with familiarity and brought her back down to earth.
She could picture him already; sitting perfectly rigid, engrossed in thought with fingers moving adeptly across the keyboard without so much as a downward glance. In his mind lay the great american novel, just waiting to be tapped out into black & white. He'd have an untouched cup of steaming black coffee to his right; he never drank until he became frustrated with some sort of pulse-racing plot twist and needed a distraction. She glanced at the clock on the far wall and strained to make out the short hand resting solidly on 8. If things went according to the usual regimen, he'd finish off his coffee at quarter to 9 and be in to wake her, seeking sympathy for his current writers-block crisis, and hinting at hunger.
His menu was burned into her brain as well; scrambled eggs-- just lightly peppered, no salt-- and dry toast. He'd occasionally request another cup of coffee, this time with just a pinch of sugar. If she didn't have it just so, his explosive temper would flare without a moment's notice.
She remembered one morning in particular, a week after their first anniversary. At that time, his novel was just a couple of paragraphs jotted down in a spiral notebook. They'd both taken their time in getting out of bed and dressed and found themselves in the kitchen, forging for some semblance of breakfast food. Finally settling on stale bread for toast, they were eating and just enjoying each other's company when she'd reached to pour the remainder of the milk into her own glass. He'd slapped the glass from her hand before she had realized what his intentions were.
The shrill sound of the glass shattering on the hardwood floor startled her, even as she saw it happening. But what had startled her more was the look in his eyes, as if for an instant he had no idea who he was or what he'd done. Then, just as quickly as it had happened, he was back.
"I'm so sorry, Corinne. I..I don't know what came over me," he sputtered as he knelt to pick up the shards that lay scattered amidst the sea of frothy white.
It had taken her several moments to regain composure, and control over her dropped jaw, which had seemingly become unhinged. She'd just smiled sheepishly and tried to calm her racing heart, kneeling to mop up the milky mess with a cloth napkin.
But that had been then, and, luckily, she'd been following this routine for so long, there was rarely a lapse in accuracy. She rolled over on her side and shut her eyes, letting the sound of the keys tapping lull her into a dream-like state.
She turned the key again and squeezed her eyes shut in a wordless prayer.
Nothing.
Once more, this time whispering repeatedly, almost silently, "Please, God... please.."
The only sound that rewarded her chant was the clinking of keychains against each other as she turned the key; forward, then back, and forward once more.
"Perfect," she muttered, letting her head fall forward until her forehead rested on the steering wheel, "Just perfect."
Sitting there, hopeless, a shimmer of metal caught her eye. Grasping it in the palm of her hand, she could barely make out the inscription on the keychain's worn surface. She didn't need to read it, however; she knew the message by heart.
To Lauren, my guiding light. Love always, Tim.
The 8 words replayed themselves over in her mind, taunting her.
She let her fingers trace over the heart shape of the trinket before dropping it as if it had burned her.
She turned the key again, once more in vain.
Sitting up straight , she dared to steal a glance in the rearview mirror. Her tears from earlier that evening had left smoky mascara streaks in a maze on her sunken face. She absent-mindedly licked a finger and rubbed at the dark stains across her cheeks. In the pale moonlight, the greenish bruises around her wrist reflected in the mirror and seemed to appear as stray shadows.
If only.
An involuntary shiver reminded her of the cold that was inescapable in mid-january. She tore her eyes from the mirror and ran the heel of her hand across each cheek in a last effort to remove the charcoal traces.
Exhaling heavily, she pulled the handle of the door and pushed to open it. It stuck; she jolted it with her shoulder and it flung open, letting in the brisk night air.
She carefully extracted herself from the vehicle's interior, her body growing stiff and sore from the bruises and the frigid air. She didn't bother to remove the keys from the ignition.
Down the road, a streetlight flickered in and out of conciousness; it seemed to give the road a foreign mood. As if she hadn't lived here for years, had not traveled this road more times than she could count.
In the pulsing light, the cloud her warm exhalation formed reminded her of the fact that she hadn't had a cigarette in nearly 12 hours. She pushed the thought away; nicotine was the furthest thing from her mind at this moment. She had to find a way out. Out of this yard, this house, this relationship. Clearly, it wouldn't happen tonight.
*************************************************************************************************************
The sunlight filtered persistently through the curtains and the blinds hanging in the window of the master bedroom, and she squeezed her eyes shut in a feeble attempt to block out the intrusion. Rolling over and pulling the quilt over her head, she exhaled silently and attempted to nestle into the too-firm matress. She pictured herself on a near-deserted beach somewhere where her only worries were sun-screen and the plot of the steamy romance book she had her nose buried in. Her attempt in vain, the faint clicking of a keyboard in the next room rang with familiarity and brought her back down to earth.
She could picture him already; sitting perfectly rigid, engrossed in thought with fingers moving adeptly across the keyboard without so much as a downward glance. In his mind lay the great american novel, just waiting to be tapped out into black & white. He'd have an untouched cup of steaming black coffee to his right; he never drank until he became frustrated with some sort of pulse-racing plot twist and needed a distraction. She glanced at the clock on the far wall and strained to make out the short hand resting solidly on 8. If things went according to the usual regimen, he'd finish off his coffee at quarter to 9 and be in to wake her, seeking sympathy for his current writers-block crisis, and hinting at hunger.
His menu was burned into her brain as well; scrambled eggs-- just lightly peppered, no salt-- and dry toast. He'd occasionally request another cup of coffee, this time with just a pinch of sugar. If she didn't have it just so, his explosive temper would flare without a moment's notice.
She remembered one morning in particular, a week after their first anniversary. At that time, his novel was just a couple of paragraphs jotted down in a spiral notebook. They'd both taken their time in getting out of bed and dressed and found themselves in the kitchen, forging for some semblance of breakfast food. Finally settling on stale bread for toast, they were eating and just enjoying each other's company when she'd reached to pour the remainder of the milk into her own glass. He'd slapped the glass from her hand before she had realized what his intentions were.
The shrill sound of the glass shattering on the hardwood floor startled her, even as she saw it happening. But what had startled her more was the look in his eyes, as if for an instant he had no idea who he was or what he'd done. Then, just as quickly as it had happened, he was back.
"I'm so sorry, Corinne. I..I don't know what came over me," he sputtered as he knelt to pick up the shards that lay scattered amidst the sea of frothy white.
It had taken her several moments to regain composure, and control over her dropped jaw, which had seemingly become unhinged. She'd just smiled sheepishly and tried to calm her racing heart, kneeling to mop up the milky mess with a cloth napkin.
But that had been then, and, luckily, she'd been following this routine for so long, there was rarely a lapse in accuracy. She rolled over on her side and shut her eyes, letting the sound of the keys tapping lull her into a dream-like state.
