CREATIVE WRITING
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." - Oscar Wilde
He calmly stroked my hair, taking my hand from out of my pocket and squeezed it tight, as though if he could just continue to hold on, nothing would change. I felt warm tears streak my cheeks, but his strong hand came to meet my face to gently cast them away. He pulled me into him and kissed my forehead, leaving a chilly, wet mark where his lips were imprinted.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered again. His hushed voice was so smooth, like the sweet sound of lullabies or a children’s choir. It was hard for me to remember that only moments ago his screams and shouts were loud enough to make my chest tremble to its rage. It was like being at a concert and feeling the beat of the drums. It reminded me of a screaming infant, uncontrolled and erratic. He was throwing the glasses at me in one moment, but then quickly stopped and started to pull me by my hair to our bedroom. I somehow managed to escape his grip and run to the bathroom. I locked the door as fast as I could, my heart barely beating. The lock was a blur in my fingers as black, mascara-tinted tears cascaded on my white blouse. I leaned over the sink, threw up twice, and laid on the floor until I finally heard a polite knocking on the door. When he eventually convinced me to open the door, he looked distraught at how he made me. His eyes were kinder than they were only minutes prior, and his mouth looked kissable once more. My shaky hands tried to pull my weakened body off the bathroom floor, but he ran in to assist me as soon as he sensed my struggle. I felt exasperated by his quick switches from hurt to help. He noticed several pieces of my hair still entwined around his fingers, slowly starting to cut off of his circulation. His eyes were bright red, tears on their rims. I felt a pull in my heart for his sudden desire to be my husband again. In his invalid display of disrespect and anger, I found I could not help but love him. A monster, perhaps, but my loving husband underneath. What would happen to me, anyways, if I tried to leave him? A big fight, perhaps. A few punches and pulls, even. What if… I regret the thought but, my own death? Well, he calmly stroked my hair, taking my other hand from my other pocket and squeezed it tightly with the other. The tears ran over and in between his fingers. I felt fragile in his arms. “I am so sorry, my dear, do you forgive me?” Like it was a question; like I had a choice. I pressed my face into his chest and murmured. “I do, I always do.” As I hear his sigh of relief as he releases me to continue on his merry way to work, I reach for the sofa as spots appear in my vision. I can hear my mother talking to me of my father. “No person is your friend who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow.”
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About the author.I love creative writing, especially poetry and short narratives. I hope expand my career as a poet and to always be reading something. Archives
April 2019
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