What Mary Means ((Narrative, Open to Samantha and Marie))
It's after dinner and the children are busy with homework, television and toys. There was little invitation for a cold, barren backyard at near-dark, though the sunset was beautiful as always. He's gone out to check on Mary and to take his nightly medication. She's not in the car.
"Mary?" He peeks around behind the car, thinking perhaps she'd fallen under the wheels, somehow. He doesn't know how she'd have done that, but she could have. Suddenly the air is very cold here.
"It's time, Tom."
A gun-barrel and the side of the car hit his head, one right after another, and too soon after his shoulder hits the dirt next to the tire. "Mary?!"
"Believe me, Tom, you knew this was gonna happen."
She's twenty-four today.
"Oh Jesus, Mary..."
She throws the gun to the side. "It's not loaded. Doesn't matter. All I have to do is take these, right?" She holds up a bottle between her index finger and her thumb, rattling it in the fading light. "Because that's what you came out here for. To keep everyone else safe."
"You're not going to..."
"Yes."
It's so cold in his chest, clenching up. "Don't let me die here."
"You're going to die here."
"No, I don't want to die."
"You don't have that choice." She stands over him and pockets the medication. The echo of children is cut in two, split with them between the edges.
"Please, no, I hate it here." He grabs at her ankle. "Let me go home. I hate this damn country, let me go home, please..."
"And what, kill Eamon, Theresa? You can't go home."
"No, at least to New York, just not here, please..." Staring up at her, shaking and one hand on her shoes.
She kicks his hand off, drops down to his neck and places a hand on each side of his face, sneering. "You can't go home!"
And he turns his head and bites her hand until blood fills his mouth. "I'll kill them first! I'll kill them if you don't let me go!"
She screams and the blood pours from her twelve year-old hands onto his face.
"Mary?" He peeks around behind the car, thinking perhaps she'd fallen under the wheels, somehow. He doesn't know how she'd have done that, but she could have. Suddenly the air is very cold here.
"It's time, Tom."
A gun-barrel and the side of the car hit his head, one right after another, and too soon after his shoulder hits the dirt next to the tire. "Mary?!"
"Believe me, Tom, you knew this was gonna happen."
She's twenty-four today.
"Oh Jesus, Mary..."
She throws the gun to the side. "It's not loaded. Doesn't matter. All I have to do is take these, right?" She holds up a bottle between her index finger and her thumb, rattling it in the fading light. "Because that's what you came out here for. To keep everyone else safe."
"You're not going to..."
"Yes."
It's so cold in his chest, clenching up. "Don't let me die here."
"You're going to die here."
"No, I don't want to die."
"You don't have that choice." She stands over him and pockets the medication. The echo of children is cut in two, split with them between the edges.
"Please, no, I hate it here." He grabs at her ankle. "Let me go home. I hate this damn country, let me go home, please..."
"And what, kill Eamon, Theresa? You can't go home."
"No, at least to New York, just not here, please..." Staring up at her, shaking and one hand on her shoes.
She kicks his hand off, drops down to his neck and places a hand on each side of his face, sneering. "You can't go home!"
And he turns his head and bites her hand until blood fills his mouth. "I'll kill them first! I'll kill them if you don't let me go!"
She screams and the blood pours from her twelve year-old hands onto his face.