A repost. Fiction to help us remember to live life.
It had to be the appearance of the gun that sent her to the divorce attorney, because, let’s face it, guns were never her kind of thing. Even though he waved it in her face, pointed it at her, touched the muzzle to her chest, and threatened to shoot himself with it, too, she survived that night.
It’s just as likely he killed her anyway.
How does one ever recover from knowing she could’ve died? From seeing fleeting television images of those scary crimes of passion, the ones where multiple black body bags are carried from some bland ranch structure or ritzy mansion while the reporter drones on in the foreground, wondering how it all happened, pointing the camera in stricken faces and asking the extended family how they feel? She knew how it happened, in a freak series of rash actions and shouted words that culminated in something final.
For a while, she forgot to feel anything.
Marriage was supposed to be…..what exactly? The ultimate state of bliss? The natural order of things? The rest of one’s life with a good, caring person? The best path to have children? The thing she was expected to do next? She was still too young to really define it for herself, but her little-girl fantasies and teenage dreams never included hell on earth.
Hell wasn’t what graced her eyes the first time she saw him. The One. He was everything – EVERYTHING – she had been trained to seek in a mate. She still had her list, the one she made when she was sixteen or seventeen, taped between the pages of her Bible. When she pulled out the worn paper and held it up next to him, she thought she’d drawn his picture. Marrying him was the most natural thing she’d ever done.
The natural things were the things she tried to remember when he called her a tumbling fury of Very Bad Words, when maybe all she said was I don’t want to have that for supper or I’m not ready to have people over or it’s too soon to have children. She never knew what might unleash the barrage of words she never really knew before she said I do. Through the haze of comment boxes that poured forth, obscuring his face, she tried to imagine the natural things, the secret smiles, the thrill of falling in love. Those comment boxes were pointy, though. They had gouging tips and sharp edges, could hack away pieces of her spirit until she recognized nothing but smoke and air, fog and mist, all things with no form, no surface, no shape of self to which to cling.
Sometimes, she thought it might be better if he just hit her. Shoving and screaming and driving the car really fast while pulling her hair didn’t seem to give him the release he craved. She locked herself in the bathroom, stared at herself in the mirror, made empty deals with herself. He said that was the last time. He promised not to do it again. Who are you? How did you ever wind up here?
A child was the ultimate weapon, the thing he knew would irrevocably control her, filaments that would snake from the tips of its fingers and toes. Those invisible fibers would wrap around her, consume her, while he watched from above, holding the wooden paddles attached to the strings. Succumbing would’ve been so easy, especially since she couldn’t remember all the little pieces of herself he’d already sheared away, scattered rubble that no longer fit together.
Guns and children. Children and guns. An explosive combination she recalled just in the knick of time. Tick. Tick. Tick…..
. . . .
This is a work of fiction. The story is based on some true events. However, it has been fictionalized, and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Wow! What an exact opposite post to this past week’s wondrous marriage adventures in Vegas and Zion. I think I prefer to stay in happy land with brother Elvis….thankyew
Of course, Elvis did love himself some guns.
Sorry for the jarring veer in a different direction. I get my book back from the editor this week. Those nagging voices that whisper ‘you can’t write’ are out in force. Every time I read this post, I know I can write. In a weird way, I reposted it to help me prepare. I have a lot of work to do.
Yes Andra, you can certainly write, this one was certainly disturbing but extraordinarily well written.
Thanks Howard. Sorry to creep you out on a Monday.
wow – jarring indeed
“…stared at herself in the mirror, made empty deals with herself.” How many times have i done this very same thing? Too many times to count.
Funny. Last week showed me the way, this week showed me the past. You always touch me no matter which way you turn.
Thanks Lori. This is always a hard post to revisit. If I have to dig this deep to make my book sing, I may end up in the loony bin.
“She never knew what might unleash the barrage of words she never really knew before she said I do. Through the haze of comment boxes that poured forth . . . Those comment boxes were pointy . . . gouging tips and sharp edges, could hack away pieces of her spirit.”
This has now twice resonated with me — little in this world can do more lasting damage to our hearts than ugly, hateful words.
I never question your capacity for writing. I am in awe nearly every day. This week may bring you lots of work but it should put you closer to your goal.
I’ll probably work on the book for at least a month. I won’t really be able to gauge it until I get it back. My goal is to have it back to her for the second edit by March 15, with a drop dead date of the 23rd (the day before my birthday.) But, we’ll see. I know I have a lot of new writing to do.
“It’s just as likely he killed her anyway”
The child as a weapon reminds me of my sister.
How many women in this situation have had children? I know at least one.
Strong stuff, Andra. This really resonated: ‘ Those comment boxes were pointy, though. They had gouging tips and sharp edges, could hack away pieces of her spirit until she recognized nothing but smoke and air, fog and mist, all things with no form, no surface, no shape of self to which to cling.’ Excellent images.
Thanks, Earlybird. I hope you’re enjoying some good Jamaican fare where you are.
Spectacular post Andra – powerful, powerful descriptive delight despite the dark overtones. Best of luck with the book
Thanks, Linda. I need all the luck I can get.
Well told tale, Andra. I ran a domestic violence program for a few years ~ and you nailed the circle of violence.
The honeymoon phase problems . . . the build up of tension . . . all the way to the release . . . to start the cycle again.
Janna recently did a short story with a DV theme. You might enjoy it:
http://jannatwrites.wordpress.com/2012/01/26/cover-of-night/
It is a vicious cycle. It can wear a person down and zap the will to live.
Wow! That is so powerful! I hope that the worst parts were fiction, Andra. Goodness. Beautiful prose, as always…
Thanks, Tricia.
Those invisible fibers would wrap around her, consume her…. So, I guess she finally got her divorce. Did she?
She did, Gustavo. Yes, she did.
This was not any old story. It moved me and made me feel so bad for her. Very well written.
Thanks, Hetterbell.
Fiction, except NOT! Powerful and emotional. And troubling. You are a painter with your words! Debra
Thanks, Debra.
I have shivers.
I love the subtle, stripped down nature of your fiction. I crave that kind of stark attention to language in my own work.
Cameron, I wish all my writing approached this, but I feel that I’ve been flogged when I am done. Thank you for the compliment. I love your writing and the web of accomplished writers I am meeting here.