Still Clinging

My red velvet couch has never looked so uninviting to my tiring body. Never have I felt the urge to leave my prison cell and express ... express what? I don't know. As long as they could listen. Tell them something he can tell, and have everyone praise me for it.

No longer feel desperate. So unusually usual.

Its a continuous pain that surges through me like lightning striking an innocent body. Over and over again.

As I feel my mind slowly drowning in his mess, I feel my hands grow cold.

I just want to prove something. Make them feel how he makes them feel. Get them to all cackle and clap at my ingenious wit.

A hopeless, and pathetic wish on a coin that you don't own. Wishing on the coin he earned.

But it's all the same. Treat us as dolls. They all let us down for the sake of watching us wither into depression. They take all the attention in the room, and not even our highly placed skirts can take the eyes off of these gents.

And as I feel my legs shiver at the memory of his lingering hands, I growl at the memory of him leaving my side at the sight of our new born girl, I fall. Ignoring the ache in my knees from age.

Cautiously trying to stand on my shrinking feet, I remember wanting to spit in his face as he insulted me with his friends, as I sat with the rest of them. Legs crossed, arms folded lightly, and head bobbed to the side just to leave the impression I'm even more of a ditz. Like somehow being called an air head to our faces and then giving them a blow job for calling us so, isn't ditzy enough.

I stand here alone in this vacant house waiting for the children to crowd the empty space. Alone in fear, alone as a slave.

My hands are clenched as I try to shake these unmannerly thoughts.

He coos in my tiring ears, ignoring how empty his words mean to me.

He forgets how much he's done. How many crimes he has committed. How he is the one who forced roughness on the soft cheeks I used to love, how he yanked my virginity away from me saying he would give me a life worth leaving home. Leaving my family.

I try to breathe, but as I hold my waist I feel my body grow tighter and tighter. Stumbling over to the cabinets, I take out the relievers he has put me on. The ones that I swallow with my cabernet and pray will cure my forever lasting migraine.

I touch one of my soft curls before finally taking a seat.

These discomforting memories eg me on as I hopelessly try and hold my place. Hold the little power I still behold.

The music from his radio has died out and the only sound that fills the perfect room is the house phone. Him. His repulsive way of saying “f**k” to me in mid-day. He doesn’t waste his time romancing me. 

I hold back my sniffles before picking up the telephone.

“Hello, Mr. Jenkins residence.”

“Hey sugar lips.” He chuckles half heartedly.

“Oh, hi honey bunches … how- hows work?” Don’t mess up is all I can tell myself.

“Don’t worry bout it. Imma be a bit late tonight.”

“No worries.”

“I’ll get dinner with the guys.” he lies.

“Sounds nice. I should go, I have to-”

“Do what? Sleep?” he cackles. I feel my throat burn. I open my mouth ready to respond but nothing comes out. I watch as the phone drops from my hand. I scream, backing away from the telephone.

I am drowning in fear.

I have cracked in front of him, and he can now no longer ignore my anger and hate towards my life. Anger and hate towards him.

I take a deep breath and reach for the phone but it goes off before my bony, pale fingers could grasp it.

“Hello?” I say anxiously, both hands on the telephone.

“Make something nice tonight.” He commands, hanging up this time.

My eyes roll into the back of my head as I feel a jab at my throat.

I throw the phone before running for his bedroom.

My body litters the clean floor. My filth shows and my existence leaves a stench.

“God damn it.” I force myself to croak, hoping this will make me realize what this will do to me, and the kids. 

My hands are pulling me against the wall for support.

I look out the window as tears start to drip down onto my apron.

What if my daughter lives this. Am I raising her to believe she is nothing? 

This helps me wipe my tears before standing on my thinning legs.

I look down at my floral dress and apron. Have I been so clueless, that I haven't seen the choices I have made?

I give up. I don't give two s***s for this son of a b***h who has ruined my life.

I smile coldly, before grabbing the bathroom scissors. These dresses are nothing but cruel uniforms that advertise our stupidity. 

I can't help it. I am now thrashing at the dress that still clings to my sweating skin. I close my eyes as I feel blood drip down, as warm pains tingle my trembling body. My body is wet, and reeks of booze.

The dress is stained with red, while the increasing amount of holes in the dress get bigger from the weight of my blood. 

Finally ripping the dress off of my body and watching it fall off my shoulders, down to my feet I cry out with a smile.

I step towards the radio that has come back to life, and sway to the music that holds me in a trance.

I un-plug the telephone to feel safe, as I force myself to open the windows and blinds. 

And grabbing every dress and suit in his closet I throw them out the window and into the sloppy rain.

Its almost magical how fast I can remember being a kid, playing on the park, and wearing those same dresses without a care in the world. Happily. No reluctance to do anything.

I let the breeze hit my face, shaking my hair loose from its tight curls he loves so much.

But soon my body grows cold. My smile remains.

I run and jump on the couch leaving footprints all over the seats. Stabbing the pillows with the scissors that are still placed tightly in my hand.

Ending my revolution, I look up to the only picture on our wall. My kids. My sweet baby girl, and her older brother. His face so similar to the one of his. The one that haunts my dreams.

I blink a bit before stumbling to his closet to put my robe on. Reality has hit me as his face watches me sit in a state of paranoia on the bed. The dream is over.

I check the clock and notice that its an hour before the kids reach home.

I put on some of his nice boots, and take his hidden stash of money. The one that was cramped into the picture frame that was hiding behind his watches. I take the car keys and leave, with the front door hanging wide open.

Walking out into the rain is its own pleasure, as I start the engine.