Thursday, September 13, 2007
short story: goodbye
Goodbye
"Goodbye, honey," Lucy blows a kiss to her husband, sitting on the chair, reading his daily newspaper, its edges wet and crinkled. The idiotic delivery boy had thrown it blindly into a puddle of water. Just as she is about to turn towards the door, her husband gets up and kisses her hard on the lips. A shot of pleasure and shock rushes to her brain like a heady cut of crystal meth. Then, he continues to read his newspaper as if he had merely brushed lint off his wife’s suit.
Lucy drives off in her fancy new car, glittering red in the sun as if a thousand rubies of blood had cascaded over it. She hums to John Lennon on the radio as she does not know the words. The rush of wind blowing through her hair makes her feel sexy. She shakes her head a little, like the tall, taut models with perfect shiny black hair – shaking their heads at just the perfect angle, just the perfect intensity. Not too vigorously, nor too lightly. But, just right. Lucy wonders if they have been trained to do so, like contest dogs who undergo months of training to achieve the perfect degree of cuteness in their walk, their face. Seems like you can train anything these days. Lucy imagines slim models jumping up to catch a Frisbee, perfect hair adorned with fake smiles like melted plastic. Models flying through hoops of fire, their hair streaming out behind them like strips of paper in front of an air-conditioner. A model stumbles and her hair catches on fire.
Lucy starts giggling. The image vanishes. She lets her mind drift off to tranquil yellow beaches, a Roman amphitheater, a dense rainforest with the sounds of katydids blending harmoniously with whispers of wind and murmurs of water, a romantic Tuscan restaurant in the late evening filled with the lightest string serenades. Lucy sees a hand in front of her, inviting her for a dance.
"With pleasure," she replies, her heart filled with so much love. She reaches out to her husband’s hand – his skin is cold as diamonds. Her eyes fly open; it is not her husband. She is not in Tuscany, celebrating the love of her husband in a lustful tango under darkened lights. She has arrived at work. A large white building appears pompously in front of her, with large gold letters 'Bankers' Village' emblazoned proudly across its sleek white panels. Sighing resignedly, she parks her car, locks it, and walks off, before retracing her steps backwards to double-check the lock. A single click shows that it was already locked before. Pressing the lock button again, Lucy walks off slowly, her heart dreading the day before her. Already, she is counting the hours to 5 o' clock. She hates her job.
By the time she fights the traffic and beats the queue for pumping petrol at her favorite station, Lucy is exhausted. As soon as she opens the door to her home, however, her spirits lift and her feet feel lighter. She walks on air into her home, breathing the homey-ness of it. Her husband is waiting for her already, smiling at her. Dinner is on the table. Lucy sinks gratefully into a chair, and winces as her thigh hits the wood. She peers at it and sees a large purple bruise. For a moment, she wonders where she got it. Stroke of her hair. Touch on her cheek. Lucy’s husband looks lovingly at her as he withdraws his hand and feeds her a slice of pizza. Almost immediately, she spits it out.
"Darling! It's cold! You forgot to microwave it!"
Her husband looks apologetic and takes the pizza from her plate.
"No, it's all right," Lucy says, giving a tired smile. "I'll do it. You just sit down here, and I'll get us a nice warm dinner and some drinks."
She dumps the pizza in a microwave-safe bowl, stuffs it in the microwave, and turns it on. As the microwave quietly whirrs, Lucy pours two drinks: a whiskey for him and a glass of wine for her. When dinner is ready, they both eat. For a moment, they are silent. The silence is not awkward. It is the pleasant silence of a couple who have been in love for many years, and many more years to come. Lucy sighs happily as she sips her wine. She thinks of the many friends she has – Jenny, Marina, Zelda, Polly. They never ceased telling her what a bad husband she had, how she deserved better, how he never really loved her. They were wrong. Lucy snickers. They were jealous of her. After all, none of them had happy marriages. Jenny's husband ran off with the housekeeper. Marina's man decided that he was better off staying with his mother. Zelda never even got to marriage; all she had were empty white envelopes of promises and a costume gold engagement ring. Polly's boyfriend discarded her like trash as soon as a blonde caught his eye, leaving her with a plastic green toothbrush in her bathroom and a dirty Nike sock under her laundry.
Lucy knows that her husband loves her with such strength that cannot be conveyed with black print letters. Taking jewels of love from the star-dusted dreams of lovers all around the world, and roping them together on a silken cord of love-soaked whispers would not measure even half of his love for her. She pushes the tablecloth back roughly. Her wineglass falls. It breaks. Her husband looks at her with surprise. She jumps off the chair and grabs the lapels of his shirt. For a moment, their eyes meet. She kisses him passionately. He kisses back, with equal intensity. They both fall to the floor. As they begin to undress each other, Lucy notices a cigarette burn on her arm. She must have gotten it when she fell asleep with a cigarette in her hand. She shudders, thinking how close she must have been to death. Her husband’s lips begin to roam on her bare skin, driving all coherent thoughts away...
For such a wonderful night, Lucy is having absolutely the crappiest day at work. She wonders if it is karma – a balancing stick that prevents people from experiencing only good things. Why should there be bad though? Lucy wonders. Surely people should be allowed to love and dwell in a world redolent with little blooms of happiness and goodness. She is beginning to sound like a milk ad for kindergarten kids. Lucy shakes her head, and attempts to let the adult side of her think. But, that is exactly how she feels.
And suddenly, she is overwhelmed with a burning hatred for her job. No one seems to be listening to her. They are all acting as if she is invisible. There they go around to the photocopier, then to the coffee machine, and back to their cubicles. Each one after the other, like members of a tribe in a circle performing a ritual. Occasionally, they would stop to talk to each other, whispering beside the water-cooler, behind the photocopier, near the large potted plant. Small whispers that seemed to travel from cluster to cluster of people, like cigarette smoke traveling through the veins of a bronchiole. Lucy looks angrily at them. The whispers stop. As soon as she turns away, they continue, like the soft drone of dangerous wasps. Immediately, she gets up from her chair, and trips. Lucy swears, and sees her knee in red gashes. Blood begins to trickle. It is so bright, like glittering rubies. Like the ruby ring her husband bought her on their anniversary. The smell of the blood hits her. It is like copper and iron, drowning her in sheets and sheets of liquid metal. She begins to choke. Then, the smell disappears and all she sees is her wounded knee.
"What the hell happened to the carpet?" Lucy roars. "It's like gravel here!" Lucy looks at the ground. She is right. There is no carpet, not even a threadbare food-stained one. There is only gravel. She is on the road. Lucy stands up, a little confused. She hears the dirt-choked noise of cars and motorcycles while people are walking briskly in front of her, wearing black suits and carrying briefcases, looking important. They all seem to be headed one direction. She looks up, and sees a large white building with the words 'City Bank'. Lucy’s head begins to spin. Something is not right. She starts walking. Her husband will make everything okay. He always does. All she has to do is to tell him the truth about what happened and trust him. Her father always told her mother to be honest. Lying was the biggest sin in their home. Trust was the largest virtue, as her father kept expounding. Everyday, he would lovingly tell her mother to trust him, that everything he did was for her own good, even when it hurt sometimes. Especially when it hurt sometimes. Lucy begins to hum the song Imagine by John Lennon.
The minute she sees her house, Lucy runs to the door. She bangs on it hard, yelling "Honey, are you there?" Her husband opens the door, looking alarmed. At the sight of his face, she crumples into his arms. "Thank God you're here." As they embrace, Lucy's fingers start to feel for the ring on her left hand. The ruby ring. It is gone. "Where is it?" she whispers.
"Where is it?!" Lucy cries out loud. Her husband pulls back, surprised. "The ring!" Lucy shouted. “I lost it! Oh God, where is it?”
She begins to search the house frantically, digging into the sides of the sofa, turning out the cupboards. Cups and plates shatter on the floor. Lucy begins to breathe rapidly. Her heart races with worry and anxiety. She feels like crying. "I'll find it. I'll find it, my love. I'll find it!" Suddenly, she gives a cry and rushes across the room to the a chest-of-drawers at the side of the living room. She opens the left drawer. There is no ring. It is empty.
"Honey, I thought it was in –" Lucy turns around to face her husband. He is looking at her with cold, cold eyes. Lucy feels as if she has plunged into a well of ice water. "W-why are you looking at me like that?"
"Where is the ring?" his voice rings out loud and rough.
"I don't know. I just lost it! I'll find it. It's got to be around here…somewhere!" Lucy says, looking around frantically.
"You're a liar," he says, his voice even. "Stop pretending, Lucy. It’s over."
"What?" Lucy says, shocked. "What do you mean?"
"Just admit it, and I'll let you go. I won't be so hard on you, I promise. Not like last time. All you have to do is admit."
"Admit what?" Lucy asks, thoroughly confused.
"Your sin. Trust me, I will not be harsh on you, Lucy. Just admit it, and it'll be over soon."
"I really don't know what you’re talking about," Lucy starts to turn away.
Lucy's husband grabs her arm tightly. "Don't mess with me," he says, with gritted teeth. "If there's one thing I hate the most, it's dishonesty. Now, tell me the truth, and I will set you free."
Lucy looks into his eyes, and begins to feel afraid. Fear soaks into her heart and skin like blood. "I really don't know what you're talking about," she whispers.
Her husband sighs, and releases his grip. Lucy rubs the sore skin, looking down to see the red marks. She only gets to glimpse at it for a second. He hits her across the face, sending her sprawling to the floor. She stares at him in shock.
He is not smiling. Yet, he does not look as if he is enjoying it either, like a sadistic rapist. He looks almost pained, like a father reprimanding his favorite daughter. "Just be honest, and we'll get it over with, and everything will be back to normal." He is almost pleading.
"I would tell you, I swear, if I knew. But I really – ". Another slap across the face so hard that she crashes into a glass cabinet. Glass rains on her and she falls to her knees, which have bits of glass embedded in them. She tries to get up, falls, and scrapes her knee on a shiny shard. Blood begins to flow. Lucy begins to cry.
"Honey, please..."
"The truth."
He slaps her once more. Then, he fishes out a cigarette packet from his pocket and lights a cigarette. He inhales the smoke, and exhales deeply, as if he is trying to exhale all his frustrations with her. "I know you’re having an affair with Garden. That's why you hid your ring. So he wouldn’t know." He takes another puff. "But I know." Then, he casually walks over to her, crouched on the floor. He kneels, extends his hand, and pushes a tendril of hair from her face, almost tenderly. And with equal tenderness, he stubs out his cigarette on her arm. Then, he turns her over, takes off his belt, and begins to whip her with it, across her back, thighs, and buttocks. When his energy is spent, he goes into the kitchen and fixes himself some whiskey. As he passes by a first-aid tool box, he opens it and takes out a plaster. Then, he tosses it on the floor next to her, saying "Patch up the burn. Clean yourself up, then fix us dinner. You can heat up some leftover pizza if you're too tired to stand for hours and cook."
Lucy struggles to get up and get her bearings with her good eye; her left eye is swollen shut. The bruises begin to ache. Every move brings agony to her limbs. Her bare feet graze sharp bits of glass that stick to her skin like thorns. A trail of glass before her like the path of redemption. That was his favorite word 'redemption'. Incidentally, Lucy remembers her father saying it very often, too.
"I just remembered where it is, honey," Lucy croaks, hoarsely. Her husband turns, his eyebrow raised. "It is in the other drawer." Lucy forces herself to walk towards the chest-of-drawers though the vast expanse of floor before her is littered with glass. She opens the right drawer. There is a ruby ring, glittering blood-colored motes of light that bounce off the black shiny object next to it. It is a gun.
"Honey," she calls. "Look, I found it." She shows him the ring. Then, she raises the gun, and pulls the trigger.
~
Labels: short story
Written at 11:19 PM
