Fragmentary Writings
Goodness only knows why I'm posting this but it's a few paragraphs of a story I had an idea for somewhere between 1999-2001. The basic premise was a young woman who's husband kills himself and the fallout from the event, I never got much further than this fragment, (I never do), but I just wanted to put it out there for posterity or some such thing.
So for anyone who should happen to chance upon it:
Sometimes in the pale sickness of the night, when the pain twists my body into unfamiliar shapes and wraps itself around the heart, he comes to me. Soft, silken hair like the warmest summer breeze slides gently down my cheek, lips lush and sulken skim their way down my shoulder blades like stones across a tranquil lake and pale, fluttering hands encircle my stomach with the comforting pressure of a mother to a frightened child but the pent-up passion of a lover. That’s when I break apart; I turn to embrace what my mind has conjured up from broken memories and endless need. I kiss nothing, caress emptiness and love with all my soul the icy void beside me. There is no hair, no lips, no hands that once pulsed with vibrant life: he has left me and I am utterly alone.
There’s coffee and toast for breakfast, I slide into the seat opposite my mother and pull the corners of my lips into some semblance of a smile, she returns it tentatively and I understand why, my pendulum moods make it hard for her to gauge my feelings; at times even the wrong gesture or facial expression is enough to crack the fragile pretence of normality I drag myself through. Seemingly reassured that today will be one of my good days, she launches full tilt into a speech about re-decorating the kitchen that is so wonderfully mundane and ordinary, that for a second I’m lulled into a false sense of security. For a few moments I become a teenager again, pretending to be interested in the domestic small-talk that bores me witless while my brain takes off on another one of its wild flights of fantasy. However, now these flights crash-land with a sickening mental lurch that reminds me of who and what I am, why I’m back living at home and it isn’t long before the present time catches up with me.