FICTION Titled: "Anger-Free Destiny" for Brigit's Flame Community
"I'll be there in ten minutes," his words on the phone are clipped and terse.
"OK, I'll be ready," I reply, already moving to the kitchen. The table, oh man, I should have cleared it sooner! There's a large stack of work papers he left there. I better move fast, he hates paper on the table (though he's the one who leaves it there.) Let's see, his desk, surely it will be safe there.
I continue setting the table, laying out the silverware, and run to the door just in time to open it as he prefers ("Why should I have to get my key out when you are at home anyways?")
The meal is pleasant enough, as I carefully avoid any controversial topics.
He's happy at the end, so, quietly, I mention, "Um, do you think ... do you think I could get my hair cut? I just, it's been a year and a half and it tangles so often, I just, I'd really like to get it cut ..." my voice trails off, fading at the expression in his eyes.
"Now?! No, it's just not going to work! Wait until we have more money. Did I tell you where I ate today? And I bought this amazing cheese, I think it's still in the car ... " I try to smile as he relates his enjoyable day, wishing I could have the $10 he spent on HIS lunch. I just wanted a Wal-mart haircut, he knows that. If ... if he could just cut back, just a little then I could ... but that's selfish I guess.
Silently, I clear the plates, trying to think of one of my favorite dreams. It's summer and I'm on the beach, the wind is blowing my hair. I hear the cry of the gulls and the rushing sound of wav-- "Misty! Get over here right now! I just can't believe you did this!"
I run to our room. What the heck did I, what could I have done? He seemed so calm and nice, I ... I look and he's holding those work papers from the table.
"You put these on my desk?! My desk!? Why do you ruin everything I do?! I just cleared my desk yesterday?!?!"
"Bbbbuttt..bbbuu.." Man, I hate it when I start to stutter. It's rare but when I'm scared.
"Why would you DO that?! What were you thinking?!" His eyes are full of rage.
"I..I..they are YOUR pppaapppers." I stutter to a stop. "And--and you hate it when I lose them." I cringe at my pleading tone but...I really, really didn't want him mad tonight. It was going so well!
"Argh! We need more space in this stupid house. You need to get rid of some stuff or something. There isn't space for all your junk." He shuffles the papers towards me.
His anger cooling, I turn to leave. Why? Why am I always wrong? Where was I supposed to put them? The last time he left papers on the table I put them on the printer which made him mad. He said to always put them on his desk.
The tears don't fall until I reach the kitchen, quickly dripping down my face, decorating my long hair, like flashing diamonds in a setting of gold. Their beauty mocks their origins, as, once again I have let his words shatter my heart. Why am I not stronger?
But ... why do I always lose? Why ... I tried so damned hard today, trying to do it all right. I never, ever get it right.
I plunge my hands into the dishwater, anxious to scrub the pots clean before he complains about that, too. I overhear my husband talking with our son.
"So there's no slavery anymore, Dad?" His tone is innocent and curious.
"Oh no, no one can be treated like a slave now, son. It's against the law!" His smug tone drives a dagger into my heart.
No slaves, huh? I guess it's true, slaves probably never did get a paid-for haircut. Where as, I did get mine cut almost two years ago.
My daughter comes in, asking about her birthday party. "Can we do it next week, Mom, can we please, can we?" she's so cheerful but, I tell her, "We have to ask your father."
"Mom," my daughter says, "Why do daddies get to decide everything?" her tone is curious but there's a shadow in her eyes.
As I try to form an answer, I wonder what I'm teaching this girl of mine. Even with this living example, could a relationship of mutual respect, of tenderness, somehow be her destiny? Can she please find a man who will see her as precious as I do?
"Misty!" he bellows out. I bow my head and run, not looking back, not wanting to see her expression as I jump to his voice once again. Can she still somehow grow up with her head held high? Could some man love her for that? Or must she someday cower too, to the voice of an angry man?
"OK, I'll be ready," I reply, already moving to the kitchen. The table, oh man, I should have cleared it sooner! There's a large stack of work papers he left there. I better move fast, he hates paper on the table (though he's the one who leaves it there.) Let's see, his desk, surely it will be safe there.
I continue setting the table, laying out the silverware, and run to the door just in time to open it as he prefers ("Why should I have to get my key out when you are at home anyways?")
The meal is pleasant enough, as I carefully avoid any controversial topics.
He's happy at the end, so, quietly, I mention, "Um, do you think ... do you think I could get my hair cut? I just, it's been a year and a half and it tangles so often, I just, I'd really like to get it cut ..." my voice trails off, fading at the expression in his eyes.
"Now?! No, it's just not going to work! Wait until we have more money. Did I tell you where I ate today? And I bought this amazing cheese, I think it's still in the car ... " I try to smile as he relates his enjoyable day, wishing I could have the $10 he spent on HIS lunch. I just wanted a Wal-mart haircut, he knows that. If ... if he could just cut back, just a little then I could ... but that's selfish I guess.
Silently, I clear the plates, trying to think of one of my favorite dreams. It's summer and I'm on the beach, the wind is blowing my hair. I hear the cry of the gulls and the rushing sound of wav-- "Misty! Get over here right now! I just can't believe you did this!"
I run to our room. What the heck did I, what could I have done? He seemed so calm and nice, I ... I look and he's holding those work papers from the table.
"You put these on my desk?! My desk!? Why do you ruin everything I do?! I just cleared my desk yesterday?!?!"
"Bbbbuttt..bbbuu.." Man, I hate it when I start to stutter. It's rare but when I'm scared.
"Why would you DO that?! What were you thinking?!" His eyes are full of rage.
"I..I..they are YOUR pppaapppers." I stutter to a stop. "And--and you hate it when I lose them." I cringe at my pleading tone but...I really, really didn't want him mad tonight. It was going so well!
"Argh! We need more space in this stupid house. You need to get rid of some stuff or something. There isn't space for all your junk." He shuffles the papers towards me.
His anger cooling, I turn to leave. Why? Why am I always wrong? Where was I supposed to put them? The last time he left papers on the table I put them on the printer which made him mad. He said to always put them on his desk.
The tears don't fall until I reach the kitchen, quickly dripping down my face, decorating my long hair, like flashing diamonds in a setting of gold. Their beauty mocks their origins, as, once again I have let his words shatter my heart. Why am I not stronger?
But ... why do I always lose? Why ... I tried so damned hard today, trying to do it all right. I never, ever get it right.
I plunge my hands into the dishwater, anxious to scrub the pots clean before he complains about that, too. I overhear my husband talking with our son.
"So there's no slavery anymore, Dad?" His tone is innocent and curious.
"Oh no, no one can be treated like a slave now, son. It's against the law!" His smug tone drives a dagger into my heart.
No slaves, huh? I guess it's true, slaves probably never did get a paid-for haircut. Where as, I did get mine cut almost two years ago.
My daughter comes in, asking about her birthday party. "Can we do it next week, Mom, can we please, can we?" she's so cheerful but, I tell her, "We have to ask your father."
"Mom," my daughter says, "Why do daddies get to decide everything?" her tone is curious but there's a shadow in her eyes.
As I try to form an answer, I wonder what I'm teaching this girl of mine. Even with this living example, could a relationship of mutual respect, of tenderness, somehow be her destiny? Can she please find a man who will see her as precious as I do?
"Misty!" he bellows out. I bow my head and run, not looking back, not wanting to see her expression as I jump to his voice once again. Can she still somehow grow up with her head held high? Could some man love her for that? Or must she someday cower too, to the voice of an angry man?