I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I sat in the car all Sunday afternoon weeping until my eyes became raw and swollen, which I do every Sunday from 3:30pm to 4:30pm while my husband watches football, before heading back inside to continue being a wife. When I first started this ritual, the neighbors called 911 thinking I committed suicide–I wonder if they thought I used carbon dioxide or gnawed at my wrists with a razor– but now they don’t bother me or come outside during this hour (well the neighbors on the right side are dead now, they were an old couple that was married for sixty years who died in bed holding hands, so that house is empty, the neighbors to the left are a weird couple who always wear black and smell like cinnamon and only come out at night, and the neighbors across the street have not been home in over a year though all their stuff is still in place mimicking a home) they give me my alone time, my hour, my hour that I deserve for all my cooking and cleaning and catering I do for a man who can’t even make me cum . This hour is my only moment to push out the bitter, bloody, and high-calorie taste of marriage in the form of tears, and I like to listen to songs I hate while I do it, which are in genres he loves like hip hop and country, but as I exited my ten-year-old van (I don’t know why I let the fucker talk me into getting this clunky gas guzzler when we don’t even have kids, and the fucker knew we couldn’t have kids because we got his sperm levels tested after our first date and they came back low because he kept his lips on cigarettes instead of his darling wife; I can count the number of times we’ve fucked in the past three years on one hand.) I dragged my feet, that felt like a hundred pounds of granite, through our towering and disapproving red door, the television was on but the house was empty, and I realized: my husband died three years ago,
and I never told anyone.
The last post of the week! One of my favorites to write, and also one of the most eerie, so the start of October was the best time to post it! This was a piece started in my fiction workshop, where the prompt was to create a character and have them rant with the least amount of periods as possible. Hope you enjoyed it. What did you think of the characters? Who sounds the most weird: the husband, the neighbors, or our female narrator? And the story overall? Comment all your thoughts below, and subscribe right below!