The River

Little short story I wrote a while ago about letting go of life.

The river flowed behind the old house, with the broken windows and the boarded up door.  The one with the tree lying down on the roof.

So much has changed since shattered childhood days but some things stay the same.  The cans that litter the yard, the broken bottles, and the dent on the wall from that baseball bat.

No amount of success can hide her scars and nothing will make her happy.  For years she’s held on and pushed her grief to the side but now that she’s home she can no longer hide from the truth.   

She kicks off her three hundred dollar high heels and lets the water run over her pedicured nails.  The next thing to go is her fancy suede jacket and with it the matching skirt.  She takes off her shirt, then her underclothes.  Now all that’s left is her ring, the one on a chain hidden under her clothes.  Another sad scar, a reminder of what’s been lost, the only thing she doesn't leave on the bank.

The river runs deep and fast with a current that’s hard and cold.  She slips under the surface and let’s all her problems flow away.  The scars melt off her skin and she leaves them behind with the broken old house that called her home to die.