Shame

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday.

Today's words:  beat, pressure, substance.

 * * *

Shame

The skin on my wrists is raw and tender. Tiny red dots surface and I wipe away the blood. I wonder if they’ll scar. My linen shirt lays shredded on the bathroom floor. Too bad, really—I just bought it. I didn’t expect to have it torn off me. David never showed any sign that this darkness lurked inside him.

With a swipe, I clear a narrow path through the steam on the bathroom mirror. The shower helped; scalding water beat away most of the pain. But only time will heal the bruises.

Would this have happened if I hadn’t provoked him? Did I ever say no? Asked him to stop? I can’t remember. But even if I did, would it have mattered? Would he have stopped? A small part of me—no, a large part—knows I’m to blame. I asked for this.

My gaze wanders to the reflection in the mirror, shifts down. At the base of my throat are dark, finger-shaped smudges. I can still feel the pressure, the heat of his calloused hands. There is a small cut on my bottom lip that is beginning to swell. If I turn around, I know I’ll see welts on my back and my ass.

My mother always told me it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. They’re the ones that keep the shadows hidden. She wasn’t kidding. After six months, I thought I knew David rather well. Charming and funny, he was always polite and attentive; a gentle and generous lover. That changed tonight.

Dinner was the usual how-was-your-day-what-do-you-want-to-do-this-weekend conversation; nothing of any real substance. I realize, now, it was the drive home; when I leaned over and pressed my hand against his cock, told him to drive faster.

“I can’t wait much longer,” I begged.

His response was a growl. I had never heard him utter more than a sigh when we made love, and the guttural sound was thrilling.

David didn’t bother to lock the car when we got to my house. He snatched the keys from my hand, threw open the door, dragged me up the stairs to my bedroom. He slammed me against the wall, yanked at my shirt, sending delicate pearl buttons flying. I made a feeble protest, but he pinned my arms and tore off the fabric. Blood pounded in my ears and I couldn’t catch my breath as his hands and mouth took with vicious possession. Again and again. Over and over. It was hours before he stopped. It felt like days.

I woke up alone this morning.

And now, standing before the mirror, I let the evening play back in my mind. Every detail comes back in Technicolor. I stare at the tender, swollen lip reflected in the mirror and I don’t dare lift my gaze higher. I can’t look into those pale blue eyes that I know will judge. I’m too ashamed.

I’m not ashamed because David used me.

I’m ashamed because I liked it.

Three Words

Three Words

Three words. That’s all. It wouldn’t take long to say them.

The thing of it was, once he said them, he couldn’t take them back. And uttering them was a game-changer.

He had to mean it; it was pointless otherwise. He didn’t have a problem lying under most circumstances. But this was different. Once those three words hung in the air, he couldn’t pull them back, stuff them in his mouth and swallow. They would be out there, for everyone to see.

It was a verbal contract, binding as though a thirty-page agreement were executed, with article eight, paragraph six, sub-paragraph three setting out the consequences of retracting said statement.

She stood before him, waiting, eyes filled with love and hope.

“I can’t,” he said.

He knew one day he’d regret it, because—and he could admit this now—he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He heard her weeping as he closed the door, leaving without saying the three words she so desperately needed to hear.

“I forgive you.”

Running with Scissors

Running with Scissors

Engrossed in columns of numbers, I didn’t hear her walk up behind me and was somewhat startled when she spoke.

“Do you have a pair of scissors I can borrow?”

My head jerked up and I stared into Marion’s wide face, her lips curved in a polite smile.

“Sure.” I pulled open three drawers before I found a pair. I crunch numbers for a living; the only time I used my scissors was when I opened a bag of Skittles.

I handed them over to Marion, holding the blades in my hand, pressing the blue plastic handle into hers.

“Thanks,” she chirped, widening her smile. “I’ll bring them back as soon as I’m done.”

I nodded and put my head back down, already engrossed in my numbers. I had a meeting that afternoon with the head of marketing to discuss the budget for the next quarter. Management wanted a report on write-offs, and three clients needed accruals for the current month.

It was well beyond lunch—and I hadn’t yet eaten—when I was pulled from my numbered reverie.

“Thanks, again,” said Marion, holding out the scissors. I’d forgotten she’d stopped by that morning.

“Oh sure,” I said, taking the scissors from her. She walked away before I could finish with, “Any time.”

I made a face as I tossed the scissors into the top drawer of my desk. The plastic handle was sticky and I was more than a little annoyed that she hadn’t taken care of something she’d borrowed from me. I know they’re not mine—they belong to the company—but it’s the principle of the thing. When you borrow something, you return it in the same or better condition. It’s just good manners.

Maybe she’s careless with her own things, which may explain why she couldn’t use her own scissors. The blades are probably so coated with whatever is now on the handles of mine, that she can’t open them; rendered useless by her negligence.

I wrenched a few tissues from the box on my desk and wiped my hands. The thin paper was useless and it infuriated me that I had to stop my work and go wash my hands. I had a deadline—several, in fact—and Marion was messing up my schedule. I was determined to have a word with her, tell her that she needs to take more care with things she borrows, impress upon her how much her careless behaviour affects others.

Needless to say, I never got around to that.

It seemed as though seconds after I registered that it was blood I was wiping from my hands, the police were arresting me and I was being questioned and fingerprinted. At first, I denied any knowledge. But when they told me who I had stabbed in the chest fifteen times with the blue-handled scissors, well, I just shrugged.

“He was a jackass,” I said. “He hit on me, hit on all the girls in the office.”

My lawyer assures me that I won’t be in here long. A few years, at best. It’ll be worth it. That son-of-bitch got what he deserved. I’ll be a fucking hero at the office when I get back. And Marion? She may have done the crime, but I did her time.

I think she owes me one.

Turbine

Today's muse: One Word.

Today's word:  Turbine.

* * *

Turbine

The constant rotation of our water wheel relationship is both comforting and terrifying. I embrace the reassuring reliability of its monotony, but moments fighting for breath leave me trembling. The inevitable plunges into ice-cold water circle around like a menstrual cycle.

I find myself gulping for air when I surface, praying it all ends before the next turn of the wheel.

Needing More

Needing More

She’d forgotten the affect he had on her, was surprised it was still there after all this time.

He sat back in his chair, completely at ease, one arm thrown over the back, the other holding a pint of beer. For a moment—an eternity—he stared in her eyes, without saying a word.

That’s what she’d forgotten.

She could remember the first day they met, the last time they'd fucked, and countless things between. But that stare…she’d forgotten that soul-penetrating stare. It told her he wanted her, would clear the table of glasses, Blackberries, and bar coasters, bend her over the edge and hike up her dress to thrust into her right there.

He held that intense gaze until she squirmed. It was her tell and he knew he had her. His lips curved in triumph as he sat forward, set his drink on the table. His hand skimmed across her cheek, curved behind her neck, pulled her close. He brushed his lips across hers, flicked his tongue at the corner, murmured an invitation; one she desperately wanted to accept.

“I can’t,” she said.

He pressed his forehead against hers. “Your husband.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of resignation. He sat back, ran a finger across his lips.

Her eyes followed the movement as she swallowed, nodded. “Yes.” It was barely a whisper.

And it was a lie. Her thoughts weren’t consumed by the one waiting at home. They were filled with another. One, she realized then, she would always need, but would never have.

Laundry Socks

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

These are actually last week's words: hamper, pulverize, taunt

* * *

Laundry Socks

The kids are well-trained. Four hampers are lined up like wicker soldiers beside the washing machine and everyone puts their dirty clothes in the appropriate bins. Black, White, Jeans (I can’t believe how many jeans this household has!), and Not.

The Not basket holds everything that does NOT fit into the other three categories, which I sort to create smaller sub-loads.

Without fail, a sock from one of the Not piles is sucked into the black hole of the Galaxy Load, never to be seen again. More than a little frustrated with this scenario, I began hanging lonely singles from a makeshift clothes line above the dryer.

Then something odd happened.

One by one, each orphaned twin returned from the great beyond, pulverized beyond recognition. I didn’t think much of it; figured the machine chewed up the socks then spit them out like manky hairballs, unable to digest the poly-cotton blend. As each mangled footie resurfaced, I simply shrugged and pinned it with its pair. These dancing duets now hang in a macabre conga line: fully-grown, healthy socks, each with its decimated conjoined twin.

There is one sock at the end of the line that has remained alone for what seems like an eternity. It’s singular existence taunts me; a constant reminder of my failure as a mother. It's a running joke in the family and I used to laugh. Used to. Not any more.

That changed today.

Today, as I emptied the Not Load of browns and transferred it to the dryer, a lump in the pocket of Nathan’s khakis made me stop. I squeezed it, tried to guess its identity. About two inches long, it was somewhat hard, and yet, tender. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Gross...a machine-washed Tootsie Roll.

I pulled the pocket inside out, my entire hand wrapped around the roll. I remember thinking it was even more disgusting without the wrapping—slimy. It flopped onto the dryer with a hollow ting that echoed off the laundry room walls. I cocked my head. It didn’t look like a Tootsie Roll.

In hindsight, I shouldn’t have picked it up, shouldn’t have held it between my thumb and forefinger, shouldn’t have squeezed it. I Definitely shouldn’t have lifted it up to my nose to sniff.

I now know why the socks hang so patiently on the line. I don’t think I’ll ever do laundry again. What if the rest of the foot shows up?

Blowing Steam

Today's muse:

As I mentioned, I attended a Sanctuary Retreat this past Saturday.

One of the prompts was to write down three household items, then write a short piece using one of the items. One of my words was kettle.

* * *

Blowing Steam

The kitchen is dim; not because it’s late—or early—but because the curtains are drawn in defence against the summer day.

My throbbing head rests in trembling hands, hair drapes down in a protective curtain. The kettle can’t boil fast enough, though I’m not sure I can even stomach tea.

I concentrate on warding off the resurgence of food and booze. Oh, right. Booze. I mentally tap my fingers against my skull (actually doing so would have the effect of a seven-point earthquake), tick off last night’s liquid buffet. The counting marathon is interrupted by the scream of boiling water.

Jesus! I really need to get a new kettle. One that isn’t so loud.

A deep breath gives me false hope of holding down the bile and I contemplate getting up to quiet the screeching monster on the stove.

Then there is silence, and I am at once tearful with gratitude. I turn to look across the kitchen, careful not to rattle my fragile brain.

Wearing nothing but snug, white briefs, blue eyes smile at me and lips curve in promise.

“Milk and sugar?” he asks.

I smile. Nod with care. And refrain from asking the obvious question.

“Who are you?”

Out of Here

Today's muse:

As I mentioned, I attended a Sanctuary Retreat yesterday.

One of the most challenging prompts was poetry. Poetry is not my strong point, though I love it. We were given a poem and told to write a response to each line individually. Once our responses were written, we were to remove the given lines and make a poem with the rest.

* * *

Out of Here

Lights flash by in strobe effect;
a futile race with road signs and wooden median posts.

She rockets through the night,
follows the vee of highway,
swerving further and further from centre.

A simple twist will bring her back on track,
but a jerk to the left will get her out of here.

Dust to Dust

Today's muse:

I attended a Sanctuary Retreat today. It was inspiring and validating. The morning was devoted to writing short pieces using prompts. We broke for a delicious homemade lunch, then the afternoon was spent in blissful silence (except for the click of keyboards and the scratch of pens).

One of the prompts was to write down three smells you love and three smells you find less pleasant. Choose one of the words and write a short piece.

One of my ‘love’ words was sawdust.

* * *

Dust to Dust

Dust lingers on my tongue, catches in my throat. It’s like breathing under water; my lungs unable to fully expand. Yet the scent begs me to inhale, close my eyes and tip back my head.

The sharp hiss of the bench saw adds more flakes to my pile of heaven. I want to wade through the fine shavings, toss them in the air like down, laugh as my father twirls me around. I want to brush the sawdust from his thinning hair, press my cheek against his.

Solace is found at the lumber yard, where his memory lives among piles of cut timber.

Snow Day

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: bulky, mist, resign

* * *

Snow Day

Perched on the edge of his chair, Justin sits at the kitchen table, his spoon poised above a bowl of cereal. He doesn’t dare eat the crisp honeycombs, as the crunching would drown out the radio announcer’s voice.

Resigned to this mundane torture, he waits with infinite patience as the man on the radio drones on about the recent municipal election, the looming transit strike, a movie review and rush hour traffic. The weather report is next.

Justin squirms while the forecast is mapped out for the next four days. But it’s today’s weather report he waits to hear.

“Say it. Say it.” His lips move in silent prayer, repeating the words over and over.

Then, the announcement he had waited for all morning. With a deafening woop, Justin leaps off his chair, thrusts his fist up in an air punch.

“SNOW DAY!”

He races to the mud room, yanks down his snowsuit from the wall hook.

“Mom!” he shouts, balancing on one leg as he wiggles into the bulky gear. “I’m going over to Nathan’s.”

“Be home for lunch,” she calls back. “Tell Nathan to come with you. I’ll make grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Justin pauses, his fingers on the coat zipper. Grilled cheese. With milk. And pickles. Mom always serves grilled cheese with pickles. Awesome. He grins as he pulls his wool cap over his ears, slips on his mittens.

“See ya later!” The door slams behind him as he rushes out into the crisp cold.

“Whoa!” A foot and half of snow had fallen overnight and it was still coming down. The weather man had predicted more than two feet.

“Isn’t it great?” Nathan trudges up the driveway, pulling a toboggan behind him. “My mom thinks that school will be cancelled tomorrow, too.”

“Sweet!”

They wade through the snow, leaving parallel ditches behind them.

“Let’s go check out the new house they’re building over on Wilmont.” Justin scoops up a handful of snow, shapes it into a ball. “We can throw snowballs through the window openings.”

“Cool. Race ya.”

They’re breathless when they arrive at the construction site. Disappointment washes over them when they see that the windows have been installed.

“So much for practicing our pitching.” Nathan kicks at the snow.

“Let’s see if we can still get in.” Justin jogs up to the front window, presses his nose against the glass; his breath paints the window in a thin mist. With his mitt, he clears a large circle.

Nathan presses against him and peers through the glass. “Is that…?”

Justin’s breakfast threatens to resurface. His breathing is ragged and fogs up the window. He isn’t sorry that it blocks his view. He doesn’t want to look inside anymore.

“We…” Justin swallows. “We better call the police.”

A Moment on the Lips

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

An old prompt from the Sunday Scribblings archives.
The prompt: A moment on the lips.

* * *

A Moment on the Lips

“We can’t.” Her whisper is urgent, but she doesn’t move.

His lips curve up as he nuzzles her throat. “Yes we can.” He skims a calloused hand up her waist, brushes against her breast before cupping her face. “I just want a taste.” He tugs on her bottom lip. “For just a moment.”

Every cell in her body wants it. Needs it. Needs him. But she wonders if a moment on the lips is worth the risk of losing everything.

Vindication

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: error, jingle, vindicate

* * *

Vindication

She glides the drawer open, inch by precious inch, careful to make no sound. The room is dark, but she's done this so many times before, she needs no light. Tongue clasped between her teeth in concentration she dips her hand into the drawer. Any error at this point would mean exposure. And she can't let him know.

She's not sure why she’s hiding it. It's not shame. Guilt, perhaps.

She lifts the small satin pouch. Her fingers fumble with the drawstring as she empties the contents. She's anxious. Needy. She holds her breath when the pieces jingle together, listens for any reaction from the other side of the door. There is silence, then a cough and footsteps.

She presses back against the pillow, still as death, and wills her breathing to slow. The pounding of her heart all but drowns out all other noise. But then the television snaps on and she relaxes. Leaning over, she pushes the drawer closed. He'll be occupied for a while now. Will likely fall asleep out there.

Her fingers close around the small device. She nudges the dial and the familiar hum makes her smile.

He's with her, behind closed eyes. Not him…the other one, the one she's denied. The other beckons, carries her up the mountain, promises she will soar at the top, thrums against her until she convulses.

And when she takes flight, she is vindicated.