Category: creative writing

Time for another installment of story soundtrack.  This is the feature where I take a song and write the story or scene that would go along with it.  Up next, Kelly Price “Tired”.

THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

The sunlight felt like an invasion as it chased away the last peaceful remnants of sleep. I braced for the reprimand, the admonishment that I couldn’t do anything right.   A forceful reminder that I couldn’t even remember to close the blinds to keep the light from shining in your face. When one doesn’t come, I released the breath I was holding. Then I remembered.  You are not here.

Yesterday began as an ordinary day. I made your breakfast and ironed your clothes. You left without saying good bye. I went about doing my chores; making the house spotless to avoid a rebuke. I was making your dinner when the call came. It was your sister, Margaret, sounding hysterical. I could barely understand her; only catching the words “accident” and “hospital”.

I had begun to dislike hospitals. As a nurse, I spent too much time in them.  One accident after another had me there whether I was working or not. So, when you insisted that I quit, I didn’t argue. Even though I had worked for fourteen years and was promoted to Head Nurse of Pediatrics. I quit because you told me too. I always did what you told me too.

At the hospital that day I was greeted by a new receptionist. She didn’t inquiry about my health the way the old one did every time our shifts coincided. This new one just took my name and escorted me to a room in the emergency area. I stepped inside and saw Margaret. Her eyes were red and she was shredding tissue, the pieces falling to the floor like snow.

“He’s gone,” she repeated the phrase over and over.

I saw you then. You were lying on the gurney with your favorite golf shirt ripped down the center. A tube was down your throat and the electrodes were still taped to your body. I felt as if a boulder landed on my chest. My feet were cemented to the floor but I somehow find myself standing over you.

You were such a good looking man. It was the uniform that got my attention. You looked so strong and brave. An everyday hero. You became my hero. Until you became something else.

“What are we going to do?” Margaret was wailing. As her older brother, she looked up to you while she looked down on me. She thought I wasn’t good enough for you.

“Why?” Margaret continued. She collapsed in the chair beside the bed. “He was a good man, Lord. Why a heart attack now? Why?”

I ignored Margaret hysterics and peered down at your walnut colored face. Saw the scar over your left eye and the stubble on your chin. And even though your eyes were closed, I still saw the coldness that resided there.

“Where was he?” I asked.

Margaret talks to the floor. She didn’t have the courage to lie to my face. “They say he was with some friends and collapsed. Some buddies from work. They don’t know what happened.”

Buddies from work, I thought. That must have been the woman I noticed crying in the waiting room. A woman half my age and body weight. The woman that I knew you were seeing for the past three months. The latest fling in a history that kept repeating.

I turned back to you expecting to see your lips turned up into a sneer. But they were still. They had become the lips that used to kiss me and thrill me. In death, your body reverted back into the one I fell in love with. The chest that swelled in anger became the chest that I used to lie against and feel safe. The large, calloused hands were no longer fists but were the ones that used to stroke me tenderly. It was then that I cried. My tears were not shed in regret and lost like Margaret’s. My tears were a mixture of relief and anxiety. Without you to tell me who I am, who would I be? I stood there weeping. Tears dropped on your face. A baptism of forgiveness.

The door slid open and Connie entered. A friend from my nursing days. In her hands were papers that needed my signature and questions that needed answers. I did my best. Signed the forms where she pointed and accepted her condolences. Told her I would call if I needed anything. Connie was always dependable.

I left you there and went home. The first thing I did was open all the blinds. Let light into a house that was kept in the dark. But I could still smell you. Your presence was everywhere. So, I stripped the bed and put on fresh sheets. I got the cleaning supplies and wiped and scrubbed every surface. I threw away your newspapers and magazines. I boxed up your awards and plagues. I removed your pictures. And when I was sweaty and weary, I took a shower and climbed into the middle of the bed. I had the first peaceful sleep in twelve years of our marriage.

So, on the first day without you, I lounged in bed awhile. I painted my toenails a shade of red you wouldn’t approve of and I styled my hair like the girls in the movies. I found the makeup I had hidden away and brushed my face with the mocha colored hue that accents my cheekbones. I put on the skirt that showed off my legs and the blouse that hugged my breasts but covered up the last and final bruise. I modeled in the mirror and I smiled at what I saw.

The phone doesn’t ring all day and this time I don’t mind. Mother has been gone for four years and I never knew my father. We don’t have any friends. Well, I don’t have any friends. You made sure of that. I made a mental note to start making friends and went into the kitchen to make coffee and find something for lunch. I spent the rest of the day stretching out the new me. Freedom is a dizzying sensation that requires an adjustment period.

On the second day without you, I am up and dressed early. I planned to venture out and test my new sense of self. See how the world responds to the uninhibited and unafraid me. The doorbell rang. I am expecting the funeral home people; I still have to plan your service. But I am not surprised to see the guys from your precinct. The boys in blue stick together.

I invited them in. They expressed their sorrow for my lost. Told me what a good guy you were. A decorated officer. They couldn’t believe that a guy in relative good health could have a heart attack. One officer told me how he talked to the coroner personally and the toxic screen didn’t show anything abnormal. They agreed that your death was a tragedy. They talked and talked and I listened quietly and nodded at the proper times. You taught me not to interrupt when the brothers in blue were gathered. When they finally got up to leave, they promised to look out for me. Told me you would want it that way. I wondered why they never helped me before. Why did they turn a blind eye to my suffering? Since they pretended not to see what was going on then, I continued the charade. I didn’t tell them that potassium chloride causes heart attacks. I didn’t share that I got it from the hospital the last time I visited Connie. That secret will remain between you and me, my husband. A small price to pay for freedom.

What’s Playing on the iPod right now: “I Want to Dance with Somebody” – Whitney Houston
What I am reading now: “The Good House” – Tananarive Due

Here is something new I going to try.  Wednesdays will now be known as Story Soundtrack.  I’ll take a song that I’m feeling and image a short story that would have the song as its soundtrack.  Sounds fun?  I think so.

First up, Estelle’s “Break My Heart.”

(I could do without Rick Ross on the track but he doesn’t totally kill the vibe for me like say, Lil’ Wayne would have.)

Okay, the story would go like this.  Middle age women, after a string of bad relationships, swears off men.  She will concentrate on her career (something demanding) and taking care of everyone in her family except herself.  She feels that everything is right in her world until (cue lights!) He walks in.  He has everything you could want in a man.  He is tall, good-looking, making major bank, and confident for days.  He also has a mysterious past.  He pursues, she resists.  He is persistent and after some initial miscommunication they began a relationship.  He finally reveals his mysterious problem but woman reverts to past behavior and pushes him away.  After some time apart, (woman goes away to a beach or something to reflect) she rushes back to be by his side.  She confesses that she wants to make it work but asks him to promise that he won’t break her heart.

That’s GOLD, right?!

Peace,

Michelle