White Envelope

 

 

 

 

                                                                                  Mistakes.

                                                                                       by

                            

                                                                                 Carla Day  

                                                                             (Word count 1022)

 

The white envelope flutters down to the carpet, as I screw it's contents up into a tight ball and fling it at the door with all my might. I think I pull a muscle in my forearm. Hot tears sting my swollen eyes and my head aches. Damn him! I stare at my bare knees, dressed with faint purple bruises that look like faded violets, sitting on the bottom step of my creaky old stairs and I pull my jumper over them, Unable to look. They remind me of him, our last fight, of us tangled on the floor, shouting in the hall, crying in the kitchen, falling and ending in our house.

 I stare at the golf ball of crumpled paper sitting on the wooden floor, I pick it back up and move it around my fingertips wondering; how can something so insignificant and light deliver such heavy and devastating news? I open it back up hoping the words have changed and says something like:

“Its okay you are forgiven.” It doesn’t!

The words are clear and beautifully written in italic hand Decree Absolute.

I like the full stop afterwards that confirms just how absolute it is. Rubbing salt into my guilt-ridden open wound. I shudder, bite my bottom lip until I taste blood and I cry and lick salty tears. Taking the letter to the kitchen table I smooth it out with flat palms on cold grey Formica. Flicking the switch on the kettle, I stare at the letter, willing the words to change, while the kettle trembles to a boil. I sit, knees under my chin and goosebumps pinching at my skin. I like the cold. It reminds me of how we met, under a cloudless sky on a winters morning, spurting breath into crisp air. Twinkling eyes, beating hearts and frosted-pink fingertips. Forever we said.

My kitchen suddenly looks huge, too big for just me. I sit, all small with my oversized jumper and my deflated ego and I my big ugly swollen eyes. I stand over the letter, my tears dropping in heavy penny sized splats, dissolving the beautifully written words, just like my marriage - dissolved. I smile at the irony. The clock chimes seven, routine begins, a new routine, an all alone routine, a make my own tea in the morning routine. I hate it. I throw my cold tea in the sink, I make crap tea. He always made the tea. I cry again. I look at his mug with the picture of a cat wearing a party hat. Even the cat looks as if it hates me. I throw it into the sink and letting it smash, it feels good.

 I sink back into that night when I opened my mouth and let the words escape, the words that tumbled out and lead to this. To giant tears and broken hearts and regrets and I know I should have closed both my legs and my mouth in that order. It's my fault, my mistake.  Secrets should remain secrets, I wonder, why did I ever create a secret so damaging? I hold the letter over the ashtray and feel the cool air still lingering to its starkness and I light one corner. It doesn’t ignite, instead it frays and glows red, then grey, then the smoky fringe flutters on to the table and fizzles out, leaving a burnt-paper smell. I choke and waft the blue lines of smoke away. This thing is indestructible! I take a rubbish bag from under the sink and begin to place anything that has a memory or scent of him inside and dispose of it. I don’t know who I'm trying to kid. The clock, in, the tea towel of a châteaux in France, in, the mug he brought for my 30th in,  my crushed heart in. I slump to the floor and I cry again. Damn him!

The words whirl around in my head, words that slapped my face, three weeks ago and ripped my heart from my chest and danced all over it with big strong boots! The words that stopped us from being us and took me to being lonely and sad and here, right now sobbing on my white-tiled freezing cold kitchen floor.

We're done!”

 I hear the dog yapping from next door and kneel up, wincing as I peer over the sink, knowing that the neighbour has let his dog out for a wee. I watch the old man ,lean on his walking stick and hobble down the garden with his jack Russell Toby in tow. His old body pulled to one side from arthritis. I sympathise with him , his wife died a year back, he must feel like this? I hide as he turns to look at the house from the garden path. I think he saw me. I don’t want anyone to see me. I look like shit.

 I make my way up stairs avoiding the steps that creak, I smile, I think I have mastered the sequence, the one he taught me, our sequence, our silly stair-dance, our togetherness. I miss him.

The door knocks loudly. The postman always knocks so feircly I think my woodworm-riddled door will cave in and one day his arm will actually come trough my crumbling door, thrusting the letter at me. Maybe today he will bring better news, good news. Put a smile on my face, make my eyes sparkle news. His shadow in the small square window is unusually tall, perhaps he is a new one? They come and go.I reach for the handle my hands cold and look up to see...

     “Michael, what are you doing here?” My blood drained face wrinkles as I peer up, shielding my strawberry-pink eyes from the morning sun with a humming-bird-fast fluttering heart.

My face is not only shocked but swollen and blotchy and ugly and I want to die!

    “I miss you.” A Big smile creeps across his stubble chinned face and big arms scoop me up and wrap around me and squeeze me in tight. A cold nose nuzzles at my neck and warm tears roll down my face. He's home and I broke his mug!

 

 

 

 

 

      

 

           

 

 

 

 

                            Mistakes.

                               by

                            

                            Carla Day  

                         (Word count 1022)

 

     The white envelope fluttered down to the carpet, as I screwed ups it's contents into a tight ball and flung it at the door, so hard, I think I pulled a muscle in my wiry forearm. Hot tears stung my eyes and my head ached.

 

     I stare at my bare knees, dressed with faint purple bruises that look like faded violets, sitting on the bottom step of my creaky old stairs and I pull my jumper over them, Unable to look. They remind me of him, our last fight, of us tangled, shouting crying, falling and ending.

 

     I stare at the golf ball of crumpled paper sitting on the wooden floor, I pick it back up and move it around my fingertips wondering; how can something so insignificant and light deliver such heavy and devastating news? I open it back up hoping the words have changed and says something like:

 

“Its okay you are forgiven.” It doesn’t!

 

The words are clear and beautifully written in italic hand Decree Absolute.

 

I like the full stop afterwards that confirms just how absolute it is. Rubbing salt into my guilt-ridden open wound. I shudder, bite my bottom lip until I taste blood and I cry and lick salty tears.

 

 

 

     Taking the letter to the kitchen table I smooth it out with flat palms on cold grey Formica. Flicking the switch on the kettle, I stare at the letter, willing the words to change, while the kettle trembles to a boil.

 

     I sit, knees under my chin and goosebumps pinching at my skin. I like the cold. It reminds me of how we met, under a cloudless sky on a winters morning, spurting breath into crisp air. Twinkling eyes, beating hearts and frosted-pink fingertips. Forever we said.

 

     My kitchen suddenly looks huge, too big for me. I sit, all small with my oversized jumper and my deflated ego and I my big ugly swollen eyes. I stand over the letter, my tears dropping in heavy penny sized splats, dissolving the beautifully written words, just like my marriage - dissolved. I smile at the irony.

 

     The clock chimes seven, routine begins, a new routine, an all alone routine, a make my own tea in the morning routine. I hate it. I throw my cold tea in the sink, I make crap tea. He always made the tea. I cry again. I look at his mug with the picture of a cat wearing a party hat. Even the cat looks as if it hates me. I throw it into the sink and letting it smash, it feels good.

 

     I sink back into that night when I opened my mouth and let the words escape, the words that tumbled out and lead to this. To giant tears and broken hearts and regrets and I know I should have closed both my legs and my mouth in that order. It's my fault, my mistake.  Secrets should remain secrets, I wonder why did I ever create a secret so damaging?

 

     I hold the letter over the ashtray and feel the cool air still lingering to its starkness and I light one corner. It doesn’t ignite, instead it frays and glows red, then grey, then the smoky fringe flutters on to the table and fizzles out, leaving a burnt-paper smell. I choke and waft the blue lines of smoke away. This thing is indestructible!

     I take a rubbish bag from under the sink and begin to place anything that has a memory or scent of him inside and dispose of it. I don’t know who I'm trying to kid.

   

 The clock, in, the tea towel of a châteaux in France, in, the mug he brought for my 30th in,  my crushed heart in. I slump to the floor and I cry again. Damn him!

 

     The words whirl around in my head, words that slapped my face, two weeks ago and ripped my heart from my chest and danced all over it with big strong boots! The words that stopped me from being us and took me to being lonely and sad and here, right now sobbing on my white-tiled freezing cold kitchen floor.

 

We're done!”

 

     I hear the dog yap next door and kneel up wincing as I peer over the sink, knowing that the neighbour has let his dog out for a wee. I watch the old man ,lean on his stick and hobble down the garden with his jack Russell. His old body pulled to one side from arthritis. I sympathise with him , his wife died a year back, he must feel like this. I hide as he turns to look at the house from the garden path. I think he saw me. I don’t want anyone to see me. I look like shit.

 

     I make my way up stairs avoiding the steps that creak, I smile I think I have mastered the sequence, the one he taught me, our sequence, our silly stair-dance, our togetherness. I miss him.

 

     The door knocks loudly. The postman always knocks so feircly I think my woodworm-riddled door will cave in and one day his arm will actually come trough my crumbling door, thrusting the letter at me. Maybe today he will bring better news, good news. Put a smile on my face, make my eyes sparkle news. His shadow in the small square window is unusually tall, perhaps he is a new one? They come and go.

 

 

I reach for the handle with cold hands and look up to see...

 

     “Michael, what are you doing here?” My blood drained face wrinkles as I peer up, shielding my strawberry-pink eyes from the morning sun with a humming-bird-fast fluttering heart.

 

My face is not only shocked but swollen and ugly and I want to die!

 

    “I miss you.” A Big smile creeps across his stubble chinned face and big arms scoop me up and wrap around me and squeeze me in tight. A cold nose nuzzles at my neck and warm tears roll down my face. He's home and I broke his mug!