Good morning! Here is a short story that I wrote some time ago but have never shared. I hope you all enjoy reading in. Bye, Bye, Baby Blue Hester balanced on the edge of the break-wall. The sun was rising. Already, the water was honey-glazed, the scattering of clouds, hanging like cobwebs in the lingering darkness, becoming strips of peach and purple gauze. Electricity rode the wind, promising new beginnings, and Hester desperately welcomed all of it. But it wasn’t enough. She slipped her dress off strap by strap, the cotton fabric slithering down her waist, her legs, before coiling around her feet. The rush of air against her bare skin made her wince. This skin wasn’t hers; it was tight and sown together and so permanent that she wanted to rip it to shreds. To tear if off, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. Maybe then, when the waves were swollen with blood, she’d be able to go back. One could only hope. The wind was beginning to get more aggressive. Hester could only imagine how she must look, her body pale and gray in the morning light, her hair dark as kelp, riding the wind. She wondered if people, blinking sleepily in the face of the dawn, would rush toward her. She wondered if her husband would miss her warmth, if he would clutch their children to his breast and sob at the loss. She wondered. In the distance, a seagull laughed. And Hester stopped wondering. She took the first step off the break-wall. “You haven’t touched your salad,” her husband Levi’s sandy voice commented. Hester nodded. Her fork was suspended over her roast beef, the polished silver gleaming under the overhanging light. A hand reached out, removing it. “Would you like me to cut up your meat for you?” “Yes,” Hester whispered. “I would like that very much.” Her plate was lifted away, and there was the clink of metal against metal, of metal against china, before it was set down in front of her again, the meat now cut in perfectly proportioned chunks. The same hand, leathery and calloused, smoothed her brow. “Are you feeling ill?” When she didn’t answer, fingers grazed her chin. “Honey?” Hester flicked her eyes up. Levi’s face was clean-shaven, his brown hair parted on the right like always. His blue suit was ironed, fitted, the white shirt beneath pristine. Hester followed the fabric, looking for a stitch out of place. A fray. Anything. But there was nothing. “I don’t know.” The fingers made their way into her hair, over the shell of her ear. “Would you like me to call the doctor?” he asked. Hester’s hands shook, her palms scrubbed raw with steel wool and bleach. She didn’t like the doctor. He was a small, squeaky man with caterpillar eyebrows and eyes like marbles. In the institution, his office had been a cluttered box without windows, a place where every word she spoke was snatched up and locked away. Outside, his tapping fingers and pinched mouth were just as imposing. She stabbed a piece of meat, careful not to let any of the gravy drip onto the blue tablecloth. “No.” With one last caress, the fingers fell away. “Did you put the children to bed?” “They’re sleeping,” she choked, her fingers throbbing. She could see them, their tiny bodies curled together, their hair still wet from their bedtime bath. She could smell their shampoo on her clothes. “They had a long day.” “I’d imagine,” her husband rumbled. “Would you like some more water?” He was reaching for the jug as he was asking. “No, no more for me.” Her husband leaned toward her again, eyes like swirling stars and stolen dreams. “Are you sure you’re feeling well? Perhaps you should lie down.” “No, I don’t need to,” she insisted. “We could go for a walk after dinner if you want. The fresh air might do you good.” “Maybe.” Hester gripped the arms of her chair. The wood was splintered, reminding her of bubble baths and frantic pleas, of things far too delicate and fragile to be allowed to exist. The air was stale on her tongue. Above her, there was a buzzing, perhaps a fly that had wiggled its way inside the light fixture, its tiny body slowly burning. Levi was clearing the table. Hester couldn’t bear to stare at the emptiness, at the un-creased expanse of blue stretching before her, smooth as crib satin. Her throat constricted. “Sweetheart, do you want to take that walk now?” Hester shook her head and Levi sighed, wrapping his large hands around her clammy ones. “The doctor said it would help with the frustration, with the thoughts.” His face hovered above hers, eyes owl-wide. “No, I—” He silenced her with a kiss, his lips like dead moths. “Everything will be fine.” But it wouldn’t. Levi didn’t understand. He hadn’t seen the bruises circling her forearms, a testament to her crime. He couldn’t hear the water running upstairs, couldn’t see them laughing, splashing, playing, their tiny heads crowned by raspberry scented foam. He couldn’t feel them dying. Levi was talking to her again, trying to urge her forward, but Hester wasn’t there; she was up the stairs, pressing her hands to the foggy glass, sliding it open. They were cowering in the corner, crying, and Hester was yelling, yelling at them to stop, to be quiet, but they only cried harder. And then one had thrown his chubby leg over the side and Hester had forced him back in until she was elbow-deep in water, his body flailing underneath her hands. Hester fell into Levi’s arms with a cry. The walls of the house bubbled and bulged all around her. The ceiling cracked, the wooden planks of the floor ripped away as water gushed from above and below, and Levi just stood there, hands clamped on her shoulders, oblivious. “No,” Hester moaned. “Hester—“ “NO!” And Hester spun away from him, tearing down the hallway and into the night. Hester balanced on the edge of the break-wall. The sun was rising. And, as she took her final step, the world beneath her yawned, swallowing her whole.
Posted on: Fri, 12 Jul 2013 12:34:06 +0000
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