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Words wanted to tumble out
from under the mask she wore, but held them at bay, she did so as not to be labeled whore, home wrecker, troublemaker, and insidious ungrateful bitch from hell. They promised to tell if she ever let them slip. So she sipped her walls from a straw of fiction and held everything in place while she decayed from the inside.
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The screen door creaked
like a humpback whale, beached, and dying. Early summer sun serenaded tree tops in the west, with faded rays set to a tune of lonely lovers. The slamming pierced through the silence and threw heavy shadows on slumbering bedroom doors. One would have thought the walls were empty by morning, but they weren't. Only he had gone. He used to go bowling.
Pressed league jerseys neatly folded in his man bags quietly awaited his various journeys. Had they only known their fate. She would get so hungry while he was gone. The freezer of fillets only lasted so long, before it was time for another tournament that didn’t exactly include him. He used every trick in the book. “I’ve got some puppies, want to take a look?” Sometimes, it was sugary sweets. “You like pixie sticks? I’ve got a box of them you can eat.” She liked her fillets nice and young. The fatter the better, it made for tender chewing. The lean ones, of course, made for better stewing. He used to go bowling. But, he never rented shoes, and he never ever paid his league dues. He didn’t have to. Four states away, and they never watched the news while they ate their dinner. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |
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