Eternal Rain

Rain ran in rivulets down the window, matching the trail of tears cascading down Sienna’s drawn face. The raging storm outside was a perfect replica of the raging storm within her. She did not understand why Brennan had to die. It made no sense to her that one moment they were anxiously awaiting Charlotte’s arrival and the next, she was in a recovery room, the baby in her arms, and told Brennan was dead. He had a heart attack while waiting for her. He was young, vibrant, and full of life. Twenty-five year old men did not just keel over from a heart attack! It made no sense, and she refused to let it go, despite what everyone told her.

Charlotte grew quickly, the smitten image of her father, and it only hurt Sienna more. She leaned her head against the cool glass of the window—the picture window she had insisted on having when the house was being built. All the dreams she had of parties in the house had died along with Brennan. The house felt cold, now, and empty. There was too much space, too much time, and not enough memories. They had just celebrated their first wedding anniversary before Charlotte was born. Too soon, he was taken from her.

She let the tears plop on the windowsill, watched as raindrops mirrored her tears, joining the growing puddle both inside and out. Charlotte squealed behind her and she turned her head to look. A smile moved slowly across her face, and she picked the baby up, her sadness momentarily forgotten as her delight in her child took over. Charlotte pointed a pudgy finger to a picture on the mantel. Sienna moved closer to it, swaying gently as she went. Charlotte put her little finger on the glass, and babbled in delight. She pointed at Brennan, and for just that moment, Sienna felt like he was near. She thought she could hear his voice whispering in the other room, felt his lips pressed against hers, and then they were gone again.

A new tear rolled from her eye and Charlotte’s little finger, the one that just touched her daddy, reached out and whisked it away.

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More of my NaNo characters here in response to Write on Edge‘s rain prompt.

I welcome your feedback. In case you are wondering, Brennan sold his soul to save Sienna and Charlotte, who were both facing death due to complications during delivery. He also agreed to die 1,000 times as long as they survived. Sienna mourns Brennan for much longer than she should, not ready to believe that he is really, truly gone. This piece is but a small glimpse into her pain. Your thoughts on this piece are much appreciated.

Thanks for stopping in, but before you go, could you please take a moment and check out my short story “Gloria” in dire need of votes and reviews (Yes, shameless begging here). Have a wonderful weekend!

Weapon of Choice

“You don’t have to do this.” My voice whispered back from the mirror. Such a disgusting image with my curls hanging wet and scraggly, beads of sweat glistening on my skin, and a look of fear etched on my face.

“Yes, I do.” I answered, bringing the gun to the side of my head again.

“No. You don’t believe in suicide.” The mouth in the mirror twisted into a sneer and the voice rang out in sing-song. “Suiciders go to Hell. Suiciders go to Hell.”

I pulled the gun away from my head.

“Shut up, Father Dowling. Shut up! The world IS better off without me. I’m a fuck up. I’m doing this.” I brought the gun to my mouth and kissed it. The mirror image pushed it away.

“Over my dead body!” The mirror screamed. A staccato of laughter filled the room.

“Now there’s irony,” I said. I placed the nose of the gun on my temple again, the cold steel soothing my hot flesh. “One flinch of my finger and it would all be over.”

“But you don’t need to do this.” The mirror whimpered, not touching the gun this time. “Not like this. Who said it has to be so violent?”

“As if suicide is peaceful! There’s always some weapon. Some choose pills. Some choose razor blades. I choose this. One pull of the trigger and it’s over.” I switched the gun to my other hand, angling the gun under my ear this time. “No chance of returns. One movement of applied pressure and boom! It’s done.”

The mirror whimpered again. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I have no peace. My words are weapons to my soul. I must do this.”

A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. My eyebrow held it captive for a moment before it splashed on the rise of my cheek, rolled down my face, and escaped to the floor. I switched hands again, positioning the gun at my temple, pressing the nose in the hollow. Slight pressure on the trigger made it click and I jumped.

“You don’t have to do this.” My voice whispered back from the mirror. Tears streamed down the mirror’s face.

My finger tensed on the trigger. I looked square into the mirror’s eyes. “Yes. I do.”

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For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Michael challenged me with “The lesson I take from this place is that the person who wishes for peace does not hide even a needle as a weapon. Even when driven into the need for self-defense, if you have a weapon, you are qualified to fight-maybe-but you are not qualified to pray for peace.’ Dr. Paul Nagai, atomic bomb survivor ” and I challenged Joelyn with “All she had was an axe.”

This was a tough challenge for me, so I would really appreciate your thoughts on this piece. Based on your interpretation of the quote, do you think I answered this challenge? What should I change?

Thank you for stopping by and reading!

Home Again

I sit in my rocking chair enveloped in darkness. A small slit of sunlight shimmers on the cold linoleum beneath my feet. If I listen hard enough I can hear them calling my name..

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Lucy, are you ready to go?” my mother said, her blondness a slim shadow on the far wall I was desperate to ignore.

“Lucy?” she called again, temper peppering her voice. I didn’t care. All I wanted was to sit here wallowing in sullen misery in the dark. She never let me just be. I’m not like her, all peppy and perky and social.

No, I’m about as anti-social as they come, more by choice than anything else. I could have friends if I wanted them, but having friends was too much work. It required plastering on fake smiles and exchanging insincere pleasantries I could do without.

My mom didn’t understand this, though, and tried to force me into activities that were neither interesting nor fun. I wasn’t graced with athletic skills. Roller skating caused me pain. Church youth groups were too chipper. Sporting events held in too bright gymnasiums that smelled eternally like sauerkraut and wet dog made me retch. The darkness under the bleachers gave way to illegal activities I wanted no part of.

No, I’m rather content just being me. I do my greatest thinking alone. I’m at my best when I’m alone. People like me? We’re a dying breed. The rest of the world just doesn’t get us. They think we need fixing or something. Solitude does not equal broken.

The last time she took me to a sporting event she discovered the brutal lines carved on my arms. They were a mixture of red and pink, old and new, evidence of my fascination with self-inflicted pain.  There’s just something about the merlot colored liquid weeping from white flesh that arouses me. Of course, she didn’t understand that either.

My mom finally had enough. She made an appointment with some quack who rented a corner office in the building where she worked. After spending a mere fifteen silent minutes with me, he questioned my mother’s capabilities in providing for me. Their shouts echoed through the empty hallway.  My mom shut the door to his office so hard as she left it made the doorknob rattle. I’d never seen her so alive. When it was all said and done though, she surrendered me to his trust.

“Lucy!” Her voice was red hot now. I stared at her shadow for a minute more before acknowledging her. She softened and sighed.

“I don’t know what else to do with you. You’ve wandered so far away, I fear you’ll never find your way home again.”

~*~*~*

I sit in my rocking chair enveloped in darkness. A small slit of sunlight shimmers on the cold linoleum beneath my feet. The fancy white shade is pulled almost all the way down, just the way I like it, revealing only a small portion of my entombed reality. The gold field beyond the wired window fades away into the rolling green hills edging the horizon, enticing me.  If I listen hard enough, I can hear them calling my name…

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The picture at the beginning of the story was the prompt from Bloggy Moms Writers Workshop this week. Are you a blogging mom? Come join the workshop!! You’ll find useful writing tips and weekly prompt there with week long linkups to showcase your writing.

This is also a response to the StoryDam Weekly Challenge: “where is it?” in which we were instructed to write a fictional (or non-fictional) piece in which your character has lost something important.

Do you know what my character lost?’

I also worked in the 3 Word Wednesday prompts from this site also according to the definitions they offered for them: Brutal, Sullen, Trust.

And finally, I also utilized Trifecta‘s word prompt this week, though I did neither the 33 nor the 333 word count requirements. The word this week was “Weep” using the 3rd definition of: to exude (a fluid) slowly : ooze <a tree weeping sap>

And man, was it a blast. This story comes in just over 500 words. I’m always looking for good, honest critique on my pieces, and I’d really like to know what you think on this one. What did Lucy lose? Will she ever find it again?

A Life Unwanted

*Trigger warning: Suicide*

Iridescent, I hover in the air, time frozen, all sound muted save the voice of the doctor. I watch as my body lifts, recoils. All heads in the room turn in unison to look at the monitor. Flatline.

“375″ I hear from a distant realm. Cold metal hits my chest, my body lifts again, recoils. Heads bob, a line jumps on the monitor, and the paddles are put away. Darkness.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I can’t make it in to work today again. I’m still so sick. I’m so sorry,” I hoped the congestion I felt in my nose and chest was apparent to my new boss.

“You’ve missed 3 days already. If you do not come in today, don’t worry about coming back,” the reply was harsh, panicked, unexpected.

I’d only been on the job for a week when I got slammed with pollen that had me flat on my back feeling as if I had been playing on the highway in the middle of the night, bouncing between semis like a pinball machine. I probably should have known better, but I thought I was that valuable.

~*~*~*~*~*~

A different set of faces surround my body this time as I again spend moments weightless, suspended between realities. The paddles are out again, ready to strike. The line is flat. Time freezes. I lift, retreat, arms fall lifeless towards the floor. Heads wave like a pendulum towards the box hanging from the ceiling. Blip. A long slash mars the surface. Blip. Satisfied, the paddles are sent back home, and I succumb to the blackness.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The little pill bottle jingled as I pulled it out of the cabinet. My doctor had prescribed it to me to help with my cold symptoms. It hadn’t worked very well so far, only making me sleep. The 10 milligrams didn’t seem very effective, so I counted them. 1, 2, 5, 7, 10. 100 milligrams should do the trick.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Everything is up in the air.” Muffled voices just beyond a wall I can’t see through, even in my translucent state. A woman wrapped in burgundy stands over my bed, her head turned sharply to the display still distended from the ceiling. The line is flat across the screen, parallel with the neon green one holding its hand. The door slams open, silently, as more wine covered bodies rush in surrounding the defibrillator. The metal of each paddle is slimed up before they kiss, then separate to grab hold on my chest. I lurch, rise,withdraw once more. A flash of blue from between long lashes is beheld briefly before the body flinches, falters. Pause. The line remains still on the screen. A final jolt and my body springs up, then shrinks away, and the sea of heads nod as the line dances like a swinger in a retro lounge.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Why are you here?” my voice sounded unnatural, removed. My mother sat in the chair next to my bed, the crackles audible as she fidgeted in the seat.

“They said you tried to kill yourself.”

“They were wrong. I just wanted to feel better.”

“That’s why you told George you took all those pills?”

“Did I? I don’t remember that. I took those pills to feel better and not lose my job. They were only 10 milligrams. I thought I could take more.”

“You had to have your heart jumped  5 times, Stephanie.”

Silence.

Ungratefulness. Resentment.

Why had she come? She didn’t care.

Why couldn’t I be dead?

This week’s prompt: “Everything is up in the air right now.” How does this describe a time in your life?

P.S. I’m living proof that life gets better, no matter how horrible you may think it is right now. If you’ve lost hope and feel you’ve run out of choices, please  make one more call 24 hours a day/7 days a week…

1-800-SUICIDE/1-800-273-TALK/ TTY: 1-800-799-4TTY (4889)