Control (576 hits)
Category: RomanceRating: 2 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Ashlee (View user info) at 2005-05-02 12:44:38 EDT
It's a quiet night, late. Most people are sleeping. The windows of the fifteen buildings are dark, with of course a small handful of exceptions. One home, in particular, has lights burning bright. Inside, a young woman sits on the floor, a bottle of wine in one hand and a handwritten note in the other. There are boxes strewn randomly on the floor around her, containing most of her possessions. She's spent the last week packing everything up; the things not going into boxes will be left behind.
The girl sighs deeply, tilts the bottle to her lips, feeling the sweetness of the liquid wash over her tongue, warming her throat. Setting down the bottle, she runs her fingers once more over the scribbled words. Probably a first draft. She had seen the same words before, slightly more than a year ago, typed on rich, beautifully decorated parchment rather than scrawled on a sheet from a notebook. With a sigh, she drops the paper among the other sentimental items she had almost reluctantly decided to leave behind.
Outside, headlights flash past. She looks at the window, hopeful, just as she has every time a car has pulled into the lot since last week. She cranes her neck toward the door, listening to the footsteps on the stairs outside, hoping against hope that they will stop just outside her door. Countless times she has done this, and each time, the steps have passed her, going up a second flight of stairs and taking her fantasy with them. This time, they stop, her heart pausing with them. A knock at the door sends her pulse racing. For a moment, she's frozen, unsure what to do. It has to be him, she knows, nobody else would be here at this hour. But she doesn't know what he wants, and she's been doing so well, not calling him...
Somewhere in her mind, something clicks a decision is made. "Just a second," she calls, as she rushes into the small kitchen. She splashes a welcome rush of cool water over her tear-stained face, drying it with a paper towel, before making her way to the front of the small apartment. She fumbles with the locks for a moment, then opens the door. Her heart races as he smiles at her. She steps aside, silently inviting him back into her home, wondering if the evening will bring him back into her life.
She follows him to the sofa, where they sit, and absently picks up the half-empty wine bottle. Nervously, she drinks, then offers the bottle to him. He accepts, and as he reaches for it, his hand brushes hers. For a fleeting instant, the touch feels normal, safe. But then they both pull away, and she inches away, pulling her knees up to her chest and covering herself with a blanket.
"So. How are you?"
She's unwilling to look into his eyes, focusing instead on feigning interest in the pattern of the blanket that isn't doing much to warm her. "Okay," she mumbles. "Not great. Obviously."
"Yeah."
Then, nothing. The silence is uncomfortable, weighing heavy on the pair. She has a million things to say, but she can't find the words. He breaks it first, with a bad joke about the state of the apartment that was once their home. She laughs politely, and the two make awkward small talk, unfitting of lovers. Can it have been only days since they were just that?
Soon, they run out of things to say. Then, she does it, makes the mistake he's been waiting for. "I... I miss you."
He doesn't answer, and the words hang in the air, mocking her. She instantly wishes she could pull them back, but it's too late now and the silence between them has grown deafening. She has to fill it with something, anything...
"What are you thinking?" A question she has asked many times, one that has invariably been answered with "Nothing," is now answered with a kiss. He pulls her close to him as his lips meet hers, desperately, hungrily. She doesn't resist - how can she? After all, this is the scene that's played in her head every night since she last saw him drive off.
He picks her up, gently, making his way around the boxes and carrying her to the bedroom they once shared. She forces away the memory that just last night, she cried herself to sleep in the same bed he was now laying her down on. His hands, rough but gentle, caress her body as he removes her jeans. She arches her back as he moves on to the silk camisole, pulling it off as he has done so many times before. She watches him undress, and feels her body relax totally as he climbs on top of her.
They say that before death, a person's life flashes before their eyes. Now, it is not her life, but their life together that replays in her mind. She sees their first kiss, his proposal, the wedding. She remembers dinners and trips and cuddling on the sofa - all the happy moments they shared. In the midst of it all, an unwelcome memory intrudes. She recalls the fight last weekend, the screaming and the tears. As clear as day, she hears him repeat the words that destroyed her world. His voice rings in her ears, "This isn't going to work." She sees him walk out of the apartment, sees herself sink to the floor in shock.
Her body tenses, and she pulls her arms from around his neck. She begins crying again. He continues, and she wonders if he even notices the change. "Stop," she tries to say, but she can't find her voice.
He finishes, and rolls off of her. She watches in the darkness as he stands and walks to the bathroom, another scene that has played in their home unnumbered times before. She scrambles for her bathrobe, and hurries back to the living room. She's there, curled into the corner of the sofa with a cigarette when he emerges, fully clothed. She brushes the tears away and watches him put his shoes back on, preparing once again to walk out of her life.
"What was that?" she asks weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"That was sex," comes his reply, condescendingly, as though he's speaking to a child.
"I thought..." her voice trails off. He rolls his eyes and stands, making his way to the door. She follows, biting back the tears that are welling up in her eyes, barely able to contain the sudden hurt, the rage. He opens the door, and steps out into the night.
The wooden deck feels cold against her bare feet as she walks shakily to the top of the stairs. Closing her eyes tightly, she reaches out and pushes with all her might. She hears him cry out, hears the knocking as he tumbles down the steps. The wet, thick snapping sound reaches her ears, and she envisions his crumpled body at the foot of the stairs, his head to the side at an angle his neck shouldn't bend to. She sees in her mind's eye the red and blue flashing lights, sees herself sobbing as she tells the police officer about how she saw him fall.
She opens her eyes, and sees him safe on the concrete, walking to his car, unaware of the violent scene that just played through his wife's mind. She watches, helpless, as he climbs into the driver's seat. The headlights come on, pull back as the vehicle reverses. Seconds pass, slowly, agonizingly, and he's gone once again. She snaps her eyes away from the lot, forcing her legs to take her back inside the safety of her home. As she pulls the door shut behind her, she allows the pain to take over, feels herself lose control as she sinks to the ground, tears pouring down her face. She has given him back the power, and without that, what does she have left?
User Reviews
Submitted by QueenAshlee (user info) at 2005-05-02 12:50:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
http://www.ubersite.com/m/65490
Sorry.... Please don't kill me for the side-scroll...
Submitted by zakalwe (user info) at 2005-05-02 12:49:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I've noticed a common thread to your stories, and it's not a happy one...