What Lies Beneath

I cannot describe or summarise this story for you. The best guidance I can give is "expression" of ones inner self, of emotions, of what lies beneath the surface of our daily facade.

She leaves the office. Not a hair out of place, the blonde curls piled atop her head, each ringlet posed perfectly, held in place by bobby pins. Her dress is immaculate: a mid length narrow grey wool pencil skirt with pleats at the back, black heels, a grey-cropped cardigan. Her back is straight, shoulders back. Each step proportionate, a black briefcase in her hand swings on the right hand side moving with her as one.

The thin long neck, so eloquent further emphasises her straight posture. You could measure the straightness of a board along her back.

She feels the warm rays of the left over sun on her face walking through the car park towards the car. “Blink” the lights flash once, twice, indicating it is possible to enter the vehicle. Setting the briefcase behind the passenger seat, she steps into the car. One foot at a time. Even sitting in the car her posture is straight. Back rigid. Not slumped against the grey fabric. The engine roars, the radio sings a slow song and the car makes its way down the familiar slope towards home. She is on autopilot. Only half noticing the buildings rushing past on either side.

A tear glides down her cheek. She does not move to wipe it away. Stays very still, looking out the front windscreen keeping her eyes on the road ahead, on the white markings blurring together to form an uneven line. The lights turn red up ahead and traffic slows to a standstill. Another tear escapes from underneath her sunglasses. They are coming more frequent now. No longer a drip motion as if a tap had not been wound tight enough. She was certainly wound as tight as could be imagined. It was more like a little stream escaping through the boulders hunting for the promise of a river down below. The seams were beginning to loosen, what lies beneath was trying to roar its head and make its presence felt.

The office gives her the persona of the professional, focussing on the tasks that need to be completed, deadlines that need to be met, people helped. However the female beneath cannot just seize to exist, to feel nothing. She can be the empty shell moving though the motions, but only for so long. Love, passion makes us all vulnerable to hurt leading to grief, and pain. Not to feel those emotions would be to feel nothing. She is struggling to see the turn off for her street. The windscreen is all blurry. She goes to turn on the windscreen wipers only to realise that it is not raining outside.

Manoeuvring through the last few turns to pull into the driveway she gets out of the car. Her legs feel shaky. Unstable. The straight posture is gone, the briefcase feels heavy in her hand. Slowly she climbs up the steps to the front door. Her face looks a dark blur in the mirror above the entranceway.

She puts down the briefcase, unbuckles the shoes feeling the cold of the floorboards on the bottoms of her feet as she walks into her bedroom. It looks just as she left it. The cream bed spread, the pink pillows, the jewellery spread out on the dresser. Emerald rings, silver bracelets, gold chains. She stands there. Before the mirror, looking at the ghastly sight before her. Bringing her fingers to trace the red smudges and lines adorning her once clear smooth skin. It feels hot on the fingertips. She makes no sound. The stream has dried up. Everything is still as she stares at the woman looking back. The eyes puffy the colour no longer a dancing blue, but a deluded grey trapped by a glazed sheen. The lace adorning the satin slip bearing the remains of the tears she tried to deny.

It is that one-minute of calm before the storm. The smooth water lines before they gather up into a wave that comes smashing down on the unsuspecting swimmer trying to swallow them whole. When you get to see what truly lies beneath.

Her knees buckle as she falls to the floor, her whole being shaking, shoulders slumped, lips parted gasping for breath. The once perfect tied up curls sprawled around her shoulders in a mass heap of gold ringlets. Her body temperature rises as she frantically tries to take deeper breaths to find any ounce of control to find the strength to saw up the seams once more. She hears a howl as if a poor animal has gotten caught in a bear trap. But there are no animals around. The sound repeats itself. But where is it coming from? This dreaded noise, this agony it could not be coming from the self composed eloquent woman who walked down the grey office stairs only an hour before. But it was. The tears were gone and all that remained is the raw pain that needed an outlet, needed to be heard, to be accepted and embraced, to be recognised, as it could not be suppressed anymore.

As unexpectedly as it started, the shaking stopped. The storms descended, the clouds began to part once again showing little rays of sunlights seeping through the closed blinds. She stands up, her back straight, her shoulders back…

Reviews

[AreWeBothCrazy]

Wow, what an enchanting read. Your writing is incredibly descriptive; I was able to picture the entire scene taking place. The message of this story is entirely relateable, that on the outside you may appear put together but on the inside you are anything but. I liked how you described her moment of weakness; it seemed so real to me. Really, every word drew me in :) Congrats on an excellent write, I can honestly say that I look forward to reading more of your work in the future. Keep writing!

-AreWeBothCrazy :)