Artimus Bena Admiral

Joined: 17 Aug 2004 Posts: 637 Location: Dreamland.
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Posted: Mon Feb 21, 2005 3:31 am Post subject: What She Had to Do |
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What She Had to Do.
She knew what she had to do.
Privacy no longer concerned her.
“You listen to me!†Her tone surprised even her. Like her voice, her pointing finger convulsed with the rage inside her. “We’re through.†Her husband’s eyes spoke all for him. Her step-son hid his face in the shopping-cart.
Gasps spurted like the bubbles in a boiling pot of water. Then silence, broken only by the heated tap of her heels.
They watched her go.
Her betrothed rested his throbbing head deep into a sweaty hand. The jacket of his blue suit shifted with the weight of his tears. The boy hugged his father. Hugged him with all the love he could give.
What… where. Where am I?
She knew what she had to do.
The shadow of a man, it shifted and contorted, rippling with the water, keeping, keeping beat with death’s own music. There must be someone drowning down there.
Her body shook with the sudden cold of water’s river. A darkened angel she became, an angel sent to save the life of a stranger.
From the frigid depths her shape emerged, and into the open night she came, wet. Her arms were empty, where the stranger should have been.
Had she failed?
Those who stood upon the shore could only stare. Why did they look so horrified?
A white room.
She knew what she had to do.
The touch of his skin was reality. She had to take him, do him, now. Now or never.
He stood, and the flame of the candle shifted with her.
She watched him go, and the music faded.
She had failed.
Why…? Why can’t I move my arms? Voices.
She knew what she had to do.
She had to do it.
The boy stood up to her. Had the gall to stand up to her. Her brow set like the sun, bringing the darkness he feared. Crimson cheeks and redder lips spewed anger like light in a prism. Endless anger. Her hand was gripping the boy’s head, pushing him down, down, down, down, down, “I can squash you. You can’t beat me. You can’t beat me. I can squash you like the insect you are.â€
The boy resisted. A strong boy, he was.
What is this place?
She knew what she had to do.
The walls of the room stood naked but open to the festive voices of family. Dinner awaited upon the adequate table where they sat. A cake in the very middle.
The joy of the gathering was like nature so unpredictable, but calm.
The joy of the gathering was like glass, broken.
With a fist, the weight of her sudden anger came down upon her plate. Heavy breath replaced the cheery buzz. Heavy hearts replaced warm ones. Flittering lungs replaced her calm. Only a ghost. She was only a ghost. This couldn’t be real. They stared all the same. She was real, but she was not.
The white room is small and empty; like her soul, but not like her mind. Her mind has never been empty.
She knew what she had to do.
Her husband lay upon the hospital bed. His face was stern but soft, and he spoke with the same light-hearted tone he always had, “The doctors say I’m lucky my colon was where it was, or the appendicitis would have killed me.†He touched the bandage on his stomach. Smiling, he looked to his son sitting near the window, “Happy birthday, butt-head.â€
She thought about the boy, her step-son. She thought. And inside, a key was turned. The lock to her emotions shifted, and released. The door opened.
In a moment within a moment, she shook with fury boundless, beginning with a whisper, “I don’t want that little shit around here anymore—look at him, look at him--†The boy sat with his feet in the chair, arms around his legs, playing with his sandaled feet. Like the well meaning man he was, the boy’s father tried to calm her.
The twig has no influence in a flood.
She knew what she had to do.
“He’s a fucking child—a fucking child!"
“Honey, he's eleven; please, calm down--â€
“Don’t tell me to calm down! Look at this—look!†Her shaking hand ripped out from her pocket a yellow slip of paper. Scribbled writing drowned it. “Look what this little bastard says about the other kids when he’s on the phone with that whore of a mother!â€
“Now, just a minute, she’s a good woman--â€
“Fuck off!†With strength enough to break a neck, she threw the yellow paper at the shaken boy. Nothing but horror could he show.
Then silence, broken only by the heated tap of her heels.
They watched her go. “I’ll fucking kill him! I’ll fucking kill him!â€
Had she failed? She supposed that was subjective.
Men in long ivory coats tower above her, “What’s with this one?â€
“She hadn’t taken her medication in three weeks. Poor family’s had to deal with her outbursts.â€
“Will she be here long?â€
“I’m not sure…â€
I'm not here...
I'm not here...
I'm not...
She knew what she had to do.
Failure? Subjective.
And the music faded. Happy music. _________________ SACRE BLEU!
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