Brigit's Flame, November, week #4
Title: Return to the Chrysalis
Author: keppiehed
Rating: G
Warning: none
Word Count: 831
Prompt: “Chrysalis”>
A/N: Written for week #4 at brigits_flame.
The moon shines down through the undressed windows of Mrs. McCheevey's bedroom casement, and she thinks-not for the first time-of how she ought to finish the curtains. The thought is a wearisome one; she can picture herself for the thousandth time sewing the seams. She'd selected the fabric months ago, and all that is left to do is finish the project, yet there they sit on her dining room table in a pile of dusty linen, still trailing out of the sewing machine. Mrs. McCheevy isn't known for her follow-through.
The brightness spilling across her pillow isn't at fault for her sleeplessness; in truth, Mrs. McCheevy is an insomniac. She's had trouble sleeping since the children were little, when she swore every little noise was a voice calling for her in the night. Gary'd never had a bit of a problem sleeping through anything, even that time a tornado had come right through and knocked down a tree on Peachtree Lane. The children are grown now, though, and Mrs. McCheevy supposes she is just getting old.
It seems silly to lie in bed when she isn't tired, but that's what people do at night. Mrs. McCheevy tries to keep to schedules because otherwise time tends to unravel and she gets confused. She's discovered that being alone in the house is a bit like being in the desert: one has to learn to navigate by new signs. One of the ways she has kept sane is by checking the calendar every day, even though she knows very well that the square will be empty. She has learned to look past the vastness of the white space that had been full of doctors and hospital visits and instead reads the number. “Twenty-four,” she says. She says it aloud, even if it sounds silly, because Mrs. McCheevy knows that she needs to talk to someone, even if it is only herself. “Wednesday the twenty-fourth. November. It's going to be lovely today, I can tell.” Even if it wasn't, even if it was going to be gray and snowy, she says that anyway. It is important to be positive. She'd read that in a magazine, and she believes it.
Eventually the moon rises in the sky and Mrs. McCheevy's pillow is relegated once again to darkness. She closes her eyes and perhaps falls to sleep but if so it is only for a moment. Something wakes her, and she blinks at the bedside clock which reads, as it does every night, 1:03 am. Mrs. McCheevey sighs. If she were a more whimsical sort she would wonder if she were haunted, but she is not so she does not. She merely sits up, grateful that her bladder is twinging so that she may have an excuse to make a trek to the bathroom.
The light from the overhead fixture doesn't hurt her eyes like it used to; it is one of those newfangled bulbs that is supposed to last forever but doesn't. Mrs. McCheevy watches the light grow stronger in the bathroom as the bulb warms up, like a sun rising. By the time she is finishing peeing it is fully lit. Mrs. McCheevy flushes and twists on the faucet to wash her hands. The warm water makes her rheumatic knuckles ache. She stares at the fragile blue veins of her skin under the water; her fingers used to be so long and pretty. She bends her ring finger and it crooks obligingly, but it looks like a stranger's finger, a witch's finger. Mrs. McCheevy watches her wedding ring slide around on the withered digit. She couldn't take it off now if she tried.
Would it come off? She is curious now. She's never taken off her rings, not like some women do. Her sister removes hers every time she kneads bread, but Mrs. McCheevy has always worn hers, even when she can feel the grease from the meatloaf clogging underneath. It's as much a part of her as her grief has been. As her own fingers are.
As Mrs. McCheevy slides the soap over her hands, she is struck with an impulse to slip the circle from her finger. It is a weight, and she has a sudden notion of freedom. She tugs at it, and the skin underneath is tender and naked as new shoots of grass in the spring. Mrs. McCheevy pulls harder as the band meets the resistance of her swollen knuckle. It just begins to glide over the inflamed joint when she catches sight of herself in the mirror: her hair is askew and her housecoat has gapped open to reveal the lined skin and pendulous breasts of an old woman, an ancient woman. What is she doing?
Mrs. McCheevy takes a breath to steady herself, then she takes another until she is calm She flips off the light and in darkness returns to the chrysalis of her bed in which she awaits the coming morn and another day ahead.
Author: keppiehed
Rating: G
Warning: none
Word Count: 831
Prompt: “Chrysalis”>
A/N: Written for week #4 at brigits_flame.
The moon shines down through the undressed windows of Mrs. McCheevey's bedroom casement, and she thinks-not for the first time-of how she ought to finish the curtains. The thought is a wearisome one; she can picture herself for the thousandth time sewing the seams. She'd selected the fabric months ago, and all that is left to do is finish the project, yet there they sit on her dining room table in a pile of dusty linen, still trailing out of the sewing machine. Mrs. McCheevy isn't known for her follow-through.
The brightness spilling across her pillow isn't at fault for her sleeplessness; in truth, Mrs. McCheevy is an insomniac. She's had trouble sleeping since the children were little, when she swore every little noise was a voice calling for her in the night. Gary'd never had a bit of a problem sleeping through anything, even that time a tornado had come right through and knocked down a tree on Peachtree Lane. The children are grown now, though, and Mrs. McCheevy supposes she is just getting old.
It seems silly to lie in bed when she isn't tired, but that's what people do at night. Mrs. McCheevy tries to keep to schedules because otherwise time tends to unravel and she gets confused. She's discovered that being alone in the house is a bit like being in the desert: one has to learn to navigate by new signs. One of the ways she has kept sane is by checking the calendar every day, even though she knows very well that the square will be empty. She has learned to look past the vastness of the white space that had been full of doctors and hospital visits and instead reads the number. “Twenty-four,” she says. She says it aloud, even if it sounds silly, because Mrs. McCheevy knows that she needs to talk to someone, even if it is only herself. “Wednesday the twenty-fourth. November. It's going to be lovely today, I can tell.” Even if it wasn't, even if it was going to be gray and snowy, she says that anyway. It is important to be positive. She'd read that in a magazine, and she believes it.
Eventually the moon rises in the sky and Mrs. McCheevy's pillow is relegated once again to darkness. She closes her eyes and perhaps falls to sleep but if so it is only for a moment. Something wakes her, and she blinks at the bedside clock which reads, as it does every night, 1:03 am. Mrs. McCheevey sighs. If she were a more whimsical sort she would wonder if she were haunted, but she is not so she does not. She merely sits up, grateful that her bladder is twinging so that she may have an excuse to make a trek to the bathroom.
The light from the overhead fixture doesn't hurt her eyes like it used to; it is one of those newfangled bulbs that is supposed to last forever but doesn't. Mrs. McCheevy watches the light grow stronger in the bathroom as the bulb warms up, like a sun rising. By the time she is finishing peeing it is fully lit. Mrs. McCheevy flushes and twists on the faucet to wash her hands. The warm water makes her rheumatic knuckles ache. She stares at the fragile blue veins of her skin under the water; her fingers used to be so long and pretty. She bends her ring finger and it crooks obligingly, but it looks like a stranger's finger, a witch's finger. Mrs. McCheevy watches her wedding ring slide around on the withered digit. She couldn't take it off now if she tried.
Would it come off? She is curious now. She's never taken off her rings, not like some women do. Her sister removes hers every time she kneads bread, but Mrs. McCheevy has always worn hers, even when she can feel the grease from the meatloaf clogging underneath. It's as much a part of her as her grief has been. As her own fingers are.
As Mrs. McCheevy slides the soap over her hands, she is struck with an impulse to slip the circle from her finger. It is a weight, and she has a sudden notion of freedom. She tugs at it, and the skin underneath is tender and naked as new shoots of grass in the spring. Mrs. McCheevy pulls harder as the band meets the resistance of her swollen knuckle. It just begins to glide over the inflamed joint when she catches sight of herself in the mirror: her hair is askew and her housecoat has gapped open to reveal the lined skin and pendulous breasts of an old woman, an ancient woman. What is she doing?
Mrs. McCheevy takes a breath to steady herself, then she takes another until she is calm She flips off the light and in darkness returns to the chrysalis of her bed in which she awaits the coming morn and another day ahead.