Peace offering
I am really, really sorry if anything that I've said has offended anyone. I really just want to write some stories and read some stories, and maybe innocently chat with some people. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Anyway. I just sort of thought of this in the past thirty minutes or so and thought that someone might like to read it.
Title: Drive
Author: Me! Um, you can call me Finny for now if you like
Rating: PG
Description: Missing scene--Bree drives Rex to the hospital after his second heart attack.
She bent over her husband, sitting at the bottom of the stairs, holding his left side in pain, and her own heart ached. How could she have been so stupid? No one was going to return to their room before she did, and she could make the bed then. No one would look strangely at a wife who was wearing her nightgown when she brought her husband into the emergency room late at night. And, she thought painfully to herself, nothing that Rex had done was worth putting off the care he needed. Suddenly truly ashamed of herself, Bree van de Kamp leaned over and kissed her husband softly on the top of his head.
“You’re going to be fine,” she said soothingly as she helped him to stand. “Here, lean on me if you can’t walk properly.”
Rex was in pain, but not so much pain that he wasn’t slightly wary of his wife’s about-face. She said to lean on her, and he could barely walk, so he did, but it didn’t make him feel safe, just terrified that the world was going to fall away under him. But she didn’t let him fall, slender, light-on-her feet Bree whom he could probably break in half with not much effort, at least when he was healthy. No, she displayed a steely physical strength that mirrored the emotional strength she’d shown for years as she led him to the car.
And then Bree-Bree who never drove without adjusting each and every one of her mirrors, though Rex would often irritably complain that no one had driven the car since she had, and she hadn’t gotten taller, shorter, thinner, or fatter overnight, so the mirrors should still be perfect-Bree who insisted that everyone was buckled and sitting upright before she’d even start the engine-Bree who would never even drive 66 miles per hour on the interstates, to the loud honking and angry passing of the cars behind her-Bree was speeding down Wisteria Lane as her husband hastened to fasten his seatbelt and had almost reached the stop sign at the end of the road before she remembered to put on her headlights.
“I’m so sorry, Rex,” she said, and though her voice was steady and reassuring, Rex couldn’t help noticing the firm way she shifted back into first gear before turning and knew that she was inwardly raging-he could only hope not at him.
“I’m so sorry that I made you wait. It was stupid of me. I’ll never forgive myself.” And her voice was still steady, and Rex thought absently that she would have made an excellent flight attendant, because the Concorde could be falling into the ocean and yet her passengers would die certain that they’d be in London in half an hour.
“I forgive you,” he said. Then, as she turned sharply without even letting up on the gas and the car which had suddenly had to brake to let her pass let out a screeching honk, Rex reminded her, “Calm down. Getting us both killed in a car accident isn’t going to help things.” She took a deep breath, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see her eyes growing red.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said, and though her voice reflected no change in emotion and her shoulders didn’t slump at all, the gearshift that had been gasping for breath was now freed from her forceful grasp; as she slowed and downshifted, her grip was gentle.
“I didn’t know it humiliated you,” Rex told her tentatively, sorrowfully. Then Bree-Bree who never, ever, even peripherally glanced at anything that was not the road or the street signs or the pedestrians-turned her head slightly to look at him.
“It did,” she said quietly. “It does. You know I only did it because I love you.”
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was heavy, weighted with concern for his health and compassion for his wife and the half-dozen other emotions that were filling his mind. “But I figured maybe you’d grow to like it.”
“I found it nauseating,” Bree said, and she was looking at the road in front of her again. “It hurt me to hurt you. After…when you’d put on your pajamas…or in the mornings when you’d change…I’d see the marks on your back and think, I did that. I love him, and I hurt him, and I’m going to do it again. And sometimes I’d wish that you’d continued to hire a prostitute to…fulfill…those…needs, because maybe it didn’t break her heart to hurt you the way it did mine.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words sounded hollow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to leave again. I love you and I want you to be happy…with me,” she said simply as she pulled into the parking lot of the hospital.
“I love you,” he said, and he reached out to pat her arm, the hand of which was perfectly posed at two o’clock on the steering wheel. “And I don’t want to humiliate you. And I swear I didn’t tell anyone.”
“I know,” Bree said softly, and she did, sort of, though how George could have known…But she loved Rex and she knew that he loved her and she wanted to believe him and the way that he said it…
“I know you didn’t.”
And he noticed as she stopped the car and carefully moved the gearshift to neutral and almost tenderly pulled up on the parking brake that she wasn’t angry any longer, and if his heart hadn’t hurt so much he would have thrown his arms around his wife and held her tightly enough and long enough that she wouldn’t be sad any longer, either.
Okay, so most Americans don't drive stick, certainly not most American women (though I do) and probably not Bree, but call it creative license.
Title: Drive
Author: Me! Um, you can call me Finny for now if you like
Rating: PG
Description: Missing scene--Bree drives Rex to the hospital after his second heart attack.
She bent over her husband, sitting at the bottom of the stairs, holding his left side in pain, and her own heart ached. How could she have been so stupid? No one was going to return to their room before she did, and she could make the bed then. No one would look strangely at a wife who was wearing her nightgown when she brought her husband into the emergency room late at night. And, she thought painfully to herself, nothing that Rex had done was worth putting off the care he needed. Suddenly truly ashamed of herself, Bree van de Kamp leaned over and kissed her husband softly on the top of his head.
“You’re going to be fine,” she said soothingly as she helped him to stand. “Here, lean on me if you can’t walk properly.”
Rex was in pain, but not so much pain that he wasn’t slightly wary of his wife’s about-face. She said to lean on her, and he could barely walk, so he did, but it didn’t make him feel safe, just terrified that the world was going to fall away under him. But she didn’t let him fall, slender, light-on-her feet Bree whom he could probably break in half with not much effort, at least when he was healthy. No, she displayed a steely physical strength that mirrored the emotional strength she’d shown for years as she led him to the car.
And then Bree-Bree who never drove without adjusting each and every one of her mirrors, though Rex would often irritably complain that no one had driven the car since she had, and she hadn’t gotten taller, shorter, thinner, or fatter overnight, so the mirrors should still be perfect-Bree who insisted that everyone was buckled and sitting upright before she’d even start the engine-Bree who would never even drive 66 miles per hour on the interstates, to the loud honking and angry passing of the cars behind her-Bree was speeding down Wisteria Lane as her husband hastened to fasten his seatbelt and had almost reached the stop sign at the end of the road before she remembered to put on her headlights.
“I’m so sorry, Rex,” she said, and though her voice was steady and reassuring, Rex couldn’t help noticing the firm way she shifted back into first gear before turning and knew that she was inwardly raging-he could only hope not at him.
“I’m so sorry that I made you wait. It was stupid of me. I’ll never forgive myself.” And her voice was still steady, and Rex thought absently that she would have made an excellent flight attendant, because the Concorde could be falling into the ocean and yet her passengers would die certain that they’d be in London in half an hour.
“I forgive you,” he said. Then, as she turned sharply without even letting up on the gas and the car which had suddenly had to brake to let her pass let out a screeching honk, Rex reminded her, “Calm down. Getting us both killed in a car accident isn’t going to help things.” She took a deep breath, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see her eyes growing red.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said, and though her voice reflected no change in emotion and her shoulders didn’t slump at all, the gearshift that had been gasping for breath was now freed from her forceful grasp; as she slowed and downshifted, her grip was gentle.
“I didn’t know it humiliated you,” Rex told her tentatively, sorrowfully. Then Bree-Bree who never, ever, even peripherally glanced at anything that was not the road or the street signs or the pedestrians-turned her head slightly to look at him.
“It did,” she said quietly. “It does. You know I only did it because I love you.”
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was heavy, weighted with concern for his health and compassion for his wife and the half-dozen other emotions that were filling his mind. “But I figured maybe you’d grow to like it.”
“I found it nauseating,” Bree said, and she was looking at the road in front of her again. “It hurt me to hurt you. After…when you’d put on your pajamas…or in the mornings when you’d change…I’d see the marks on your back and think, I did that. I love him, and I hurt him, and I’m going to do it again. And sometimes I’d wish that you’d continued to hire a prostitute to…fulfill…those…needs, because maybe it didn’t break her heart to hurt you the way it did mine.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words sounded hollow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to leave again. I love you and I want you to be happy…with me,” she said simply as she pulled into the parking lot of the hospital.
“I love you,” he said, and he reached out to pat her arm, the hand of which was perfectly posed at two o’clock on the steering wheel. “And I don’t want to humiliate you. And I swear I didn’t tell anyone.”
“I know,” Bree said softly, and she did, sort of, though how George could have known…But she loved Rex and she knew that he loved her and she wanted to believe him and the way that he said it…
“I know you didn’t.”
And he noticed as she stopped the car and carefully moved the gearshift to neutral and almost tenderly pulled up on the parking brake that she wasn’t angry any longer, and if his heart hadn’t hurt so much he would have thrown his arms around his wife and held her tightly enough and long enough that she wouldn’t be sad any longer, either.
Okay, so most Americans don't drive stick, certainly not most American women (though I do) and probably not Bree, but call it creative license.