Part One

A Chapter by holly

The house we bought was perfect. Pink pastel, sat proud like a French fancy. The day we moved in the sky was a magnificent blue and cotton white clouds sailed by in a swift spring breeze. I adored the house. A symbol of what I hoped was going to be a perfect life. My perfect husband Edward stood beside me and we beamed up into the smiling eyes of our new home.

Edward and I had met at a society dinner. We were both of the same creed and fit together as a hand fits a glove. That night had been warm and a lazy moon hung in a summer twilight sky. It had started with small glances. Our eyes finding each other past our fellow society members. I felt that everything had come together in that moment. My hand brushed his as I reached for a fresh glass of Moscato. My cheeks flushed.

After that dinner we were inseparable. Joined at the hip as they say. The summer, which had at the beginning appeared to stretch for an eternity rushed by gaining momentum with each moment we spent together. Soon it was time to go back to college for my final year as an English Major. Our lips met on my Mother's porch as we said our goodbyes and the dull roar of the late evening crickets became our orchestra.

We wrote incessantly. Letters overlapping one another until five different conversations twisted into one. Every morning I ran to the mail room, slipper footed and flung open my mail hatch. There it would be, a sunny yellow envelope with my name written in block letters and a full stop at the end. Never had I ever felt so certain about something. I had always looked at my name with a slight feeling of embarrassment, seeing an invisible question mark at the end. Nothing had ever seen as certain as this.

Winter came. Frost covering the window and and I sat with my against the glass, waiting. I fogged it up with my breath and drew aimlessly feeling the condensation moisten my finger tip. Then I saw it. The cab snaking its way up the snowy street. I ran down the stairs, two at a time and flung open the door into his arms. Snowflakes on eyelashes and noses, into the warmth of encircling arms.

That was the first time I let him take me to bed. One stair at a time, up and up. A creak on the fifth. We sat on the edge of my single bed and I let the hair fall over my pink cheeks as I slowly unzipped the back of my dress. Then it happened and I felt whole.

We ambled hand in hand to summer break and then I graduated. We married and became simple and respectful Mr and Mrs. He took a posting at a private hospital and I settled down to write children's books. April, was when we moved into the house. My favorite part of the whole dwelling was a frosted window pane that divided the kitchen from the living area. unique in its snowflake design. It looked so fragile.

The cogs began to turn into a delicate routine. Monday to Friday 7:45am he left after a breakfast of eggs and waffles and after cleaning up I sat behind my type writer, the glass window pane in front of me. I believed I had started well. My mind relaxing with the rhythmic tap of my fingers on the typewriter. I took at break at 12:30pm and made a sandwich and settled down to review my work. I looked at the sheets of paper puzzled. Instead of my hard churned out prose there was nothing but black, from the top of the page to the bottom. I flicked through each piece and saw each was the same. I slammed down the paper and worked out onto the back porch to sit in my rocker and mull over my morning's work.

6:00pm and he came home. His same cheery smile as he took off his hat and coat. I made dinner. Meatloaf as it was a Tuesday. Towards the end of the meal I broached the topic of my writing predicament. My husband explained it must have been my imagination, what with the stress of the move and the unusually hot weather. I scrabbled around to find the evidence but I could not remember where I had put the sheets of paper. He picked up the plates and went to the kitchen. I could see his warped outline through the glass window pane as he whistled a cheery tune. He advised me I should get an early night and perhaps take one of the orange pills in the medicine cabinet. I sat and stewed.

7:45am he left for work again and I sat behind my typewriter. I looked down into its toothy grin as it mocked me. I began to write. The words flowing from the ends of my fingertips. 12:45pm, I fixed myself a sandwich and got comfortable to review my work. The paper slowly slipped through my fingers. There it was again, a morning's work turned into a black page. Each one the same. Not a single pin prick of white showed through from the previously Ivory paper. I sat on the back porch with a sweating glass on pink lemonade and waited.

6:00pm he came home, casserole for tea as it was a Wednesday. I told him again over dinner that the same thing had happened, only I had lost my slightly casual town and spoke with a pleading desperation. He picked up the plates and walked behind the glass window pane. He advised that I should definitely take one of those orange pills that night, if only to ensure a good night sleep. This continued through summer and into autumn. Each time I would try and explain to my husband my problem and his reassuring yet frustrating answer would come from behind the glass window pane.

10:45am September 5th was when I first spotted it. A hair line crack in my glass window pane. I had been lost in thought staring straight ahead when there it was, a crack as fine as baby hair. I ran my finger along the crevice, feeling the sharpness of the edge. I pondered how such a crack had gotten there in my beautiful glass window pane.

6:00pm he came home and I met him at the door. I asked him to come and look at the offending crack. Pulling him by the hand. He examined the glass, nose right up against it. He chuckled slightly and explained that there was nothing there and wiped his hand over the crack for emphasis. He sat down at the table, waiting for his lasagna. It was a Thursday.