By posting this, copyright is already established.
Stephen King said "Keep it simple."
The unfinished first chapter:
Untitled:
C1:
The room is decorated with shattered pictures, hanging on
catawampus. A wedding picture, their
wedding picture, lays dismember on the stained carpet. A broken lamp envelops one corner, a smashed
television hangs on the wall, spider web glass serving as proof. The drywall covered with fist sized black
caves on all four sides. Screws embedded
into studs, their purpose unserved now.
Twenty or so prescription bottles, most spilled during the
struggle, rest on her nightstand, chipped faux wood, resembling a shelf from
the drugstore. One says Xanax, the other
Valium, the next Lexapro, Paxil, Welbutrin, Fluoxetine, Clonazepam, Lorazepam,
etc, etc. Accumulated over years of
distress, compounded on top of a marriage not quite kosher.
This life isn’t the
life she had envisioned. Stereotypical
white picket fenced house, vibrant green ensconced backyard filled with
children’s laughter and glee. A puppy
giving chase, joining the family as they cookout with their neighbors and tell
tales of yesteryears. That life never
happened, nor will it ever.
A his and her disaster piece.
Her chest heaves outward, followed by a deep sigh.
I love you he says.
I know she says as she looks down at the debris riddled
floor.
This was for us, my gesture to us he says.
I know she says never looking up from her shattered
life. Her chest bulges with oxygen,
followed by another bellowing sigh.
This changes nothing he says. His hand reaches out to console her shoulder,
she recoils.
Blood riddles their distressed faces. Skin tore from freshly manicured
fingernail. Their hair is tangled and
vandalized.
Her pale white skin, contrasts with fresh red
abrasions. That blouse he bought her two
birthdays ago, tore on the shoulder, stretch from his raged grip. Her bra, black and white striped shows
through. She sits on the bed, comforter
disheveled, pillows and sheets whisked around, in her torn blouse that barely
hung low enough to cover her panties.
They seem unharmed.
Her chest heaves rolls upward, followed by a tired sigh.
A decal clings to the wall, ‘Live Life Love’. The three L’s for a happy, meaningful
existence. The first thing she read that
morning, that last thing she saw when she closed her eyes. Now it hangs half on, half off the wall,
reading ‘Live Li’. Her stomach swells,
pursued by an agonizing sigh
The air is thick with hate, disgust. A heat radiates through the room, burning
their insides, discomfort. Never looking
towards one another, not even for a second.
Tears rain down moistening the woman’s hand. Mucus slyly tries to escape her nose,
sniffled back in.
The man, her husband, surveys the damage. Eyes wondering from left to right, just like
yours. Blood is on the carpet, patches
of dark maroon trying to blend in. So
much blood. Too much blood.
Raising his hands to his war torn face, tracing the
landscape searching for wounds, for pain.
Wetting his thumb, rubbing away a dried spot of blood on his forearm, he
sits. Motionless. Slouched in shame.
The room smells of copper, metallic, all the blood. The battle that took place was just as much
psychologically damaging as it was physically.
I am who I am he says.
I know she says, sniffling in between. Her breasts rise, a sigh chases afterwards.
This changes nothing he says. Repetition buying time for deeper
thought.
The crying deepens, from the soul, from the deepest
spectrums of the inner body. Looking
face to face at the shattered family photo, probably the second thing smashed,
thrown across the small white room. Him,
her, and their son. Across the bottom it
reads, ‘The Anderson Family’. The
perfect family.
Say cheese and smile.
The perfect family.
Hold each other close.
The perfect family.
Eyes forward, shiny with love.
The perfect family.
That’s gone now, forever, never coming back forever. They sit back to back, too ashamed to face
one another. Every attempt he makes to
physically sympathize with her, shunned, unwanted. The room begins to yellow. Brightness shines through, slowly at first,
shards of light finding the gaps in the distraught window dressing. Destroyed in the heat of passion, demolished
by the heartbreak, ruined by the disgrace.
The sunlight captures a world unseen in the darkness. Particles floating, swaying to the
atmosphere. Dancing in the light,
disappearing into insignificance.
I am your husband, I am the same Jim you married sixteen years ago he
says.
Her head shakes, the tears roll off the side of her peach bruised
cheeks. This is not who I married she
says. Why couldn’t you have started
smoking, she says, or started drinking?
Why this? Why turn to this? She paws at a small plush frog, spotted with
blood. Her hand tremble, anxious of
what’s next. The frog, eyes innocent,
peers into hers, eyes of pain, suffering, hurricane of emotion.
Melissa, this changes nothing, he says, absolutely nothing.
Shreds of newspaper are strewn across the bed, almost resembling
sheets, there’s so much of it. The
clippings from the man’s escapades. His
adventures, Jim’s “hobby”.
This changes nothing he says again.
Eva, this changes nothing. Shame
can be heard in his voice, no conviction, no belief.
Tires can be heard screeching to a stop, close by. Lots of them.
Vehicles sliding to a standstill quickly and precisely. Muffled voices, commands echo out in the
nearby.
This changes nothing he says.
One more sigh escapes before the voices are clear and it begins.
THAT'S IT. HOPE IT WAS GOOD FOR YOU.
