The wife clamped the cell phone shut and launched it across the room. It clattered against the wall and made a sick little cry as it died. She lay sprawled across the bed, her nightgown a soiled and crumpled pool about her, brazen in broad daylight. She stared above at the slow revolving slice of the ceiling fan, imagined her throat bared to its blades, felt the caress of an artificial breeze. Outside a wind chime jangled, a melancholy sound like gently breaking glass. A vein trembled in her limp wrist.
Eight days. Eight days since the hordes of flowers had sickened the air with a sweet stench, since the shriek of the telephone had become a daily chant rather than a daily disturbance. Eight days since her husband had promptly dressed himself for work and then, equally promptly, whipped out his father’s antique pistol and shot himself through the mouth. She had returned home in the evening to find a bowl of soggy cornflakes stained pink and a ragged red streak on the wall. He lay stiff and hollow on the linoleum like a pinstriped mannequin.
The air in the bedroom was rich. It settled in her lungs and numbed her whole form like an anesthetic. She liked the feel of indifference. She imagined this was how her husband had often felt, melting into his reclining leather chair, falling asleep before his head hit the pillow. Hearing the hollow click of the trigger a split-second before his eyes filmed in black.
But the feeling did not last; she felt compelled to rifle through his drawers. She told herself it was a merely practical task, but it was personal. Her hands sifted through the folds of his faded linen shirts, the ones that glued to his skin on scalding summer days. He loved wearing those shirts; she hated washing them. Now...
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...r throat and thin spasms ran through her fingers. She rarely drank but now she felt incredibly inebriated. She was drunk on revelation, flailing in limbo, slave to some great wild thing. She could almost taste the bitter tang of gunmetal in her own mouth, and she wondered: whose name was written on the bullet that severed her husband’s spine? Hers, or his lover’s?
The dizziness subsided in a moment. She dropped the photo back into its proper place in the drawer and closed it; she could think of nothing else to do. Turning to the window, she stared out at the lonesome sun dipping beneath the houses, dark outlines stamped against a bleeding sky. The fan blades hummed above her. She felt faintly sick but the sensation was not new. She prayed that perhaps tomorrow would be easier.
For her, marriage had been suffocatingly simple--now widowhood was painfully complex.
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
3.?Against the dark background of the kitchen she stood up tall and angular, one hand drawing a quilted counterpane to her flat breast, while the other held a lamp. The light on a level with her chin, drew out of the darkness her puckered throat and the projecting wrist of the hand that clutched the quilt, and deepened fantastically the hollows and prominences of her high-boned face under its rings of crimping-pins. To Ethan, s...
The night was tempestuous and my emotions were subtle, like the flame upon a torch. They blew out at the same time that my sense of tranquility dispersed, as if the winds had simply come and gone. The shrill scream of a young girl ricocheted off the walls and for a few brief seconds, it was the only sound that I could hear. It was then that the waves of turmoil commenced to crash upon me. It seemed as though every last one of my senses were succumbed to disperse from my reach completely. As everything blurred, I could just barely make out the slam of a door from somewhere alongside me and soon, the only thing that was left in its place was an ominous silence.
Time slowed. Men surrounded our bed and glared down at us. There was a collective breath. Then they reached for us. I tried to fight, but it only loosened my hold on Phibe, and she was ripped out of my arms like a doll from a child. My screams were probably heard all the way across the sea, in the old English town that I’d left for a better life. Phibe reached for me, her screams matching my own, but the man that held her snatched her arm back. There was a stomach-churning crack. Phibe screamed until her voice
a straw blown on the bed” (Lines 11-14). The describe her on her death bed. “
Today the forecast was another beautiful day. It had been the entire week. He half-opened his eyes, catching the white dust motes bouncing over the sunlight that shone down upon the empty side of his bed, he twisted to face it. His eyes slowly came into focus. He was looking at Ellie in their wedding photo. "Happy Birthday Darling," he said, clasping the pillow. "Sixty-eight today... Where has the time gone eh? Well... we both know that, don't we? "
As he stared at the ceiling, color returned to his face, numbness replaced with a warm sense of existing, the touch of the cool air against his skin. He looked at his hands. They were calloused and raw, nails gnawed to the quick, fingerprints lost among countless scars and burns. He grimaced. They didn't let him care for his hands, which was silly; he was a musician and he needed them to
When death has once entered into a house, it almost invariably returns immediately, as if it knew the way, and the young woman, overwhelmed with grief, took to her bed and was delirious for six weeks. Then a species of calm lassitude succeeded that violent crisis, and she remained motionless, eating next to nothing, and only moving her eyes. Every time they tried to make her get up, she screamed as if they were about to kill her, and so they ended by leaving her continually in bed, and only taking her out to wash her, to change her linen, and to turn her mattress.
The moving truck crawled to a stop in front of the tiny house next door. I watched out the window, interested in who might be moving in. A frail old lady wrapped her arm around her husband’s as they walked up the slightly sloped driveway. The man caught me staring out the window and smiled unexpectedly. My face grew hot and red with embarrassment as I smiled back. I looked down at the scattered mess of homework that covered my desk. The sun hit the giant purple crystal around my neck perfectly, creating a distorted reflection of light on the wall.
Her jet black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. Hairspray made the loose curls keep, while the pins kept it in place. Makeup concealed the dark circles which preceded underneath her eyes. Her tear streaked skin soaked in the arid pressing powder as her aunty continued to paint her face as though she were a doll. Aunty May had put a lot of effort into getting Allegra ready today. She bought her a dress last week, a black one. It had lace sleeves with tiny flowers cascading down the middle. It reminded Allegra of her mother, of a time when she was truly happy.
“Till death do us part,” is a phrase stated by many to their significant other. This phrase, such as others, is one that represents the commitment of a relationship. For the Hindu culture, this phrase is taken quite literally. Hindu widowhood has long been associated with victimization and vulnerability (Czevenda, 351). In Rabindranath Tagore’s “Skeleton,” the plight of widowhood is explored. Tagore was an Indian native and captivated the inspiration of “Skeleton” by the things he witnessed in his country. India is the home to more than 30 million widows older than 40 years old (Czevenda, 351). It is also known for its caste system, which is characterized by the categorization of people and societal roles (Czevenda, 351). Tagore utilized these statistics in his hometown, along with the Hindu beliefs, to cultivate the notion that widowhood is viewed as dishonorable.
He had poured himself a drink of whiskey.He had sat down in his chair, watched Mary.They had sat. Patrick had begun to get up to make himself another drink, although Mary quickly jumped up to offer him another drink. He scowled for her to sit down. There was a long pause in the conversation. Patrick had, later, stood up, as well as looked as though he had bad news to tell his loving wife. Patrick told Mary he was to leave. Minutes of mindless explaining from Patrick had happened. After it all, again, there was long pause as Mary stared in shock while Patrick stood in distress. Mary had stood up in shock insisting on making dinner. Patrick had refused to eat it, telling her in advance. She still went to the freezer, picked up a leg of lamb, frozen. She slowly walked over to the back of Patrick. Without thinking, Mary had swatted the back of Patrick’s head as fiercely as she could, releasing all of the anger with the sadness she had received from the man that day. She stood, watched him fall. Mary’s mind was racing with thoughts of the future. She quickly turned on the oven along with placing the leg of lamb in. Later, she touched up on her makeup, at that point, headed toward the
...ng with words and ideas and visions and her bladder about to burst. She limped away from the door, along the polished floor, through the thick door separating the upper rooms from lower orders. She limped slowly towards the staff toilet on the second floor, her mind in both a state of joy and at the same time feeling out on a limb, out of her depths. She entered the toilet and shut the door. Footsteps moved across the room above. Voices called from along the corridor. Some one laughed. She sat and closed her eyes; her bladder emptied, her heartbeat slowed, her nerves calmed. A lady's maid. She repeated it in her mind; turned the phrase over and over in her mind like a boiled sweet. What would Mrs Broadbeam say? How would the other staff be with her now? She saw the child in her mind. How had she crept into her bed? And why? Suddenly, unexpectedly, Mary began to cry.
She slammed the door behind her. Her face was hot as she grabbed her new perfume and flung it forcefully against the wall. That was the perfume that he had bought for her. She didn't want it anymore. His voice coaxed from the other side of the door. She shouted at him to get away. Throwing herself on the bed and covering her face with one of his shirts, she cried. His voice coaxed constantly, saying Carol, let me in. Let me explain.' She shouted out no!' Then cried some more. Time passed with each sob she made. When she caught herself, there was no sound on the other side of the door. A long silence stood between her and the door. Maybe she had been too hard on him, she thought. Maybe he really had a good explanation. She hesitated before she walked toward the door and twisted the handle. Her heart was crying out to her at this moment. He wasn't there. She called out his name. "Thomas!" Her cries were interrupted by the revving of an engine in the garage. She made it to the window in time to see his Volvo back out the yard. "Thomas! Thomas....wait!" Her cries vanished into thin air as the Volvo disappeared around the bend. Carol grew really angry all of a sudden. How could he leave? He'll sleep on the couch when he gets back. Those were her thoughts.
"Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be