Writing Fiction posted May 24, 2017

This work has reached the exceptional level
...a different kind of story


by Mustangpatty1029

Her kitchen was a work of art.  Every gadget for cooking could be found in the drawers, on the walls, or deep in the cupboards.  She could have been a gourmet cook.  She often found herself making elaborate meals and throwing most of them out, but she had to do something with her time.
The days were long and lonely.  Sure, she was surrounded by her two dogs and two cats, but they couldn't talk.  She didn't watch TV, and the radio stations were jammed up with rock and roll.  She preferred to listen to soothing jazz, but there wasn't a jazz station in her rural area of New Jersey.  Sometimes, she hated living here.

It would be so much fun to live in the city!  I could go and take walks along the crowded blocks.  There would be so much to see and plenty of people to interact with.
John was hardly a husband.  Nancy hated his job.  He was gone for long hours.  Most of the time, he ate in the city.  When he was home, he wanted a steak and a green salad for dinner.  His favorite breakfast was scrambled eggs and bacon.  These were hardly culinary challenges!  She and John were just a mismatched pair.  Twenty years together had only accentuated their differences.
There was a baby once.  He only lived for six months.  Some days, she would allow herself to look at pictures.  He was a beautiful little boy.  She often wondered what he would look like now.  Her tears were copious when she was alone.  John wouldn't talk of him and refused to listen to her memories.

His little face was lovely with his perfect features.  I remember the hand-crocheted outfit he wore.  It was so horrible to find him that morning.  He was so still...and cold.

Lonely days stretched out before her.  She didn't see any end in sight.  The large apartment complex in the middle of nowhere offered little respite from her loneliness.  Just about everyone left for work each morning and came home late—they all worked in the city.  There were no stores close by and she didn't drive.  Without human friends, and a busy husband, she lived in a singular world.
The bottle stood proudly at the back of the vanity cupboard.  When the door was opened, light shone through the shampoo bottles in an amber hue.  A trembling hand reached to grasp its neck.  The elixir was poured into the sixteen-ounce measuring cup.  Waiting was a beautiful crystal high ball glass filled with ice.  A simple pour with a green olive and two pearl onions made for a beautiful sight.  Lunch was served!
Nancy never drank before noon.  She stopped as soon as he called from the office to say he was on his way home.  In the hour and a half his commute took, she pulled herself together, gargled away the smell on her breath and prepared to make his steak.

I'm not a drunk.  I simply have a few cocktails during the day.  It's a pick-me-up.  The hours slip by a little faster.  The day seems less lonely if I have a drink or two.
Some afternoons found her deep into closets.  She had to have the cleanest and most organized closets in all of Monmouth county.  Each hanger was facing in the same direction.  The shoes were paired and sitting in a straight line.  Ties carefully hung on the back of the door, and their length was lined up perfectly.
Months and years passed in this fashion.  Nancy never drank before ten in the morning.  John rarely came home before ten o'clock at night.  The closets were in disarray.  The kitchen appliances were covered in a layer of dust.
Bottles stood proudly on the kitchen counter.  The measuring cup was no longer used.  The crystal glass was replaced by a plastic tumbler.  She carried the tumbler everywhere.  It graced every counter and table.  Never more than an arm's length away, she drained and refilled it several times a day.
She began to watch TV.  It filled the days, and her mind would puzzle out plots of the movies. She would sit for hours.  The dogs and cats suffered.  She didn't feed them on time, and cleaning up after them rarely occurred.  The house was a mess.  She didn't bathe for days.  John only came home on Saturday mornings, and left on Sunday afternoon.

My life will get better.  All I need to do is try harder.  I can be a better wife.  I can make him come home more often.  All I need to do is use all of my talents for him.
One Friday night, she prepared a surprise for his return the next morning.  She cleaned herself up.  The house was brought up to a reasonable level of cleanliness.  The dogs were bathed and the cats had a clean litter box.  She had groceries delivered with a dozen eggs and a pound of bacon.  Bagels and cream cheese and fresh squeezed orange juice were waiting for the morning.  She went to bed at a reasonable time and set the alarm for eight o'clock.  He usually came home by ten.
John called about nine-thirty.  He had to stay at the office.  He would see her next weekend.  She hung up the phone and looked at the dining room table.  In a manic rush of energy, she grabbed the linen table cloth and pulled.  Silver and crystal flew to the floor.  She stomped on everything.  She went into the kitchen and threw the eggs and bacon down the garbage disposal.  Hot tears ran down on her face.

How could he do this?  I tried...I tried so hard.
John finally came home, and found her body swinging from the light fixture.  Her face was grotesque and bloated.  The medical examiner would say she had been dead for almost a week.
Twinkling in the sunlight as it poured through the window, the bottle stood proudly.  Holding down a simple note, it sat on the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen.



Photo of Vodka bottle from Google images

So, I've taken a break from my usual sunny and bright pictures of puppies and cats. I went a bit dark. Just wanted to prove I could write a different kind of story.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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