What I'm going to do
I kept a mattress there and a stack of books, mouldering classics from the resale shop. There was a wool blanket on the bed, old army surplus, a kerosene lamp, an vintage calendar with pinup girls for atmosphere. I pretended it was a time before the Internet and cable, that I was a pioneer woman, the first of my kind, making it alone on the misty prairie. I had a dog, a terrier with odd bald patches here and there and an iffy temper, who scared away the riffraff, and together we sat by the fire, a stack of wood in flames outside our little house, roasting squirrel meat on a stick, sharing the bones.
Some nights I thought back to my girlhood, my dreams of an adobe hut, my desire to escape my body and my mind. He threatened me, had power over me, and I eluded him, built a treehouse, a log cabin, an igloo in my head. I sat in the branches and looked over us as he did what he wanted to do. My feet grazed his hair, so short and rough, but he was so intent he did not feel them.
I used to imagine puncturing his chest with a weapon, something slim and sharp, as slim and sharp as him and just as deadly, but I forgot about it in the daylight, only remembered when it was too late.
He died eventually anyhow. They all do, thank God. But I’m still here, in my little wooden house with the brick foundation, reading by kerosene lamp, stirring the fire with a stick, letting the dead stars shine their light upon me forever.
From a prompt: What we're going to do, barely doctored from the 12-minute version.
Image by Mike Pennington.
Hope to be back writing more frequently (and in more depth) soon.
blog comments powered by Disqus