sinnamon's Diaryland Diary


more fiction :)

Something happened to me yesterday, but I am not ready to talk about it yet. I just need time to digest it right now, and keep it to myself. When I am ready, I will inform everyone of the happenings.

Anyway, I decided to post a new story I am working on, or at least part of it. I hope you like it :)

She sighs, picks up the phone and dials two numbers….9….1, then stops. The red smears from the tips of her fingers have transferred over to the buttons on the phone. The contrast makes her hesitant for a second, her breath caught in her throat, the red drying slowly into a thin crust. She drops the phone quickly, glancing around the room, wheezing slightly. Her thoughts are muddled; all voices of reason drowned in a sea of panicked cries in her mind.

"Think damnit THINK," she yells at herself, slapping her head with the palm of her hand. She crosses to the sofa and sits down, hands trembling, eyes fixated on the coffee table but not seeing it. She absently brings her hand to her mouth and bites the broken remains of what was once a perfectly manicured nail. She tastes the salty tang of blood and jerks it out of her mouth in horror and stares at her hands. Her small, thin hands, the torn and tattered nails are streaked with the same dry crust as the phone. Her ring finger is twisted in a grotesque angle that makes her cringe, but she doesn't feel the broken bone inside that is slowly pushing its way through the thin skin on the sides of her knuckles, or the deep crude circle he cut into her chest around her right breast. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recognizes that her right eye isn't functioning normally, but she doesn't feel the heaviness of the black and swollen eyelid that has temporarily taken her eye out of commission. And her mind never even registers the thick piece of glass that is protruding from her left arm, although it has caught her eye a couple of times.

Her living room holds the evidence of a struggle; there are streaks of blood staining the carpet in several areas. Most of the furniture has been overturned; papers are scattered across the floor. Her slippered feet slide across some magazines as she heads towards the phone again. The stereo across from the couch sings some love song to her in the sweet, mellow voice of Ella Fitzgerald. She brushes the tangled, damp mass of her brown hair away from her face and paces in front of the phone confused, her thoughts coming in crowded clusters. Frustrated she begins to clench her fists, driving the torn nails of her fingers into the palm of her hand. This new pain brings her a little clarity and some focus. Breathing deeply, she turns away from the phone and heads to the bedroom.

She steps gingerly over the clutter that has infected the bedroom as it has the living room. She walks briskly, staring straight ahead. She does not look at the bed; she will not look at the bed. The bed that is disheveled and red, like her fingers, like her living room floor, like the buttons on the phone. She never did like red. She only looks straight ahead going toward the bathroom; she needs to shower. Yes, shower, then pack some things, then get the hell out of there. Maybe call for some help, her mother perhaps, or….she didn't know, she would think about that when it was time to.

The bathroom is the only oasis of clean in the house. She steps inside and closes the door, closing out all the chaos and locks it. Just in case. Just in case. She slowly removes her clothing, her pajamas: an old UCLA shirt with several holes in it that reaches down to her knees. The glass in her arm catches her eye again, finally getting her attention for more than a mere second. She frowns at it, annoyed at it's presence, and grabs for a towel. The glass gleams with her blood; it takes her several tries to get a firm grip on the edge. The process has sliced some of the thin skin of her fingers open. As her bleeding fingers slip along the shards tip, the bright red of fresh blood drips on to the glass, adding to its slippery surface. She struggles to gain a firm grip as glass thrashes in her arm shredding new tissue and exposing a bit of her bone. Her blood beats down on the white tiled floor in a steady leak. Frustrated, she closes her eyes, squeezing out tears. With a whimper of effort, she grabs hold carelessly, slashing her palm open but giving her the grip she needs. Grunting with pain, she savagely twists the shard out. The glass comes out sluggishly, leaving her gaping slash laid open, blood billowing out. The lacerated tissue seems to sigh back together in the absence of the shard. Shivering with nausea she wraps the towel around the wound, tying it tightly, then continues to undress. The soothing sound of water washes away her anxiety as she steps in the shower. Her open wounds sting as water violates the open cuts and bruises. She winches, almost cries out, then adjusts herself to the pain, ignoring it for now. She has other things to think about.

Her mind jumps to the past few months, the events of this night. Her husband, lying in a red heap on the bed. She quickly turns her thoughts away from the bed. Instead she thinks about why her life has ended up this way, the incidents that drove her to this desperation. The hatred that clouded her heart and her mind like a heavy blanket. The woman she had become. The frightened, battered wife that she was. The submissive weak creature that had hid the hatred eating her insides, until she flung it out in one violent act. She could no longer contain it. It was consuming her.

(more to come I promise :))

11:27 PM - 012700


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