Fiction Friday: [Higher Ground]

They say that New York City isn’t a very friendly place. I’ll tell you what, if I weren’t me I would have to disagree. I see the way they treat each other and man, what I wouldn’t give for just a fraction of that kindness.

Unfortunately, that’s not my lot in life.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bothered by the way they look at me. Like I’m a piece of trash or as if my very existence inconveniences them somehow. Even worse are the ones that talk about me like I’m not even there.

Gross.

Dirty.

Vile.

They say.

I’ve lost count of the number of times a child’s been yanked away before they got too close. How many times I’ve been shooed away like I’m not even worthy of human companionship.

And as if on cue, a loud talking, burly man holding a cart dog almost steps on me.

Perfect.

“Get away from me you flying rat! Man, you’re so disgusting!”

His boot has me locked in its cross hairs and my instincts kick in.  Spreading my wings I rise before he can connect. I safely perch myself on one of the fancy light posts dotted along Central Park South and look down at the man who is now shoving his middle finger my way. I can’t return the gesture, obviously, so I’m just left feeling frustrated and highly offended.

Satisfied that he’s debased me enough, his attention returns to his friends. Look, I know by now that his lashing out is more about impressing them and less about me, but it doesn’t make it sting any less.

I look out over Central Park, hoping its beauty will bring me comfort. I remind myself that I am better than the insensitive lunk below. I remind myself that I am doing the best with the life I’ve been given. I remind myself that I took the high ground, morally and literally.

But, the more I hear his voice I am reminded of how much he hurt my feelings. A black cloud mixed with anger and sadness wells up in me and before I realize it I have flitted along the post and am directly above him. Then, without hesitation, I release my breakfast.

Enraged, he starts hurling expletives at me, but they fade in the wind as I fly away hoping to lose myself in the park, wishing I felt a little more satisfied.

Moxie Monday: Because You Can

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Fiction Friday: [A Glimmer in the Gloom]

The key is in the lock and now he's home. I feel him in the room and my body screams.

Get up. Go to him.

But I don’t. I can’t. I hate myself for it.

Just add it to the list.

For the past week, this has been the ritual. Every single day. I wish it hadn’t been, but what can I do?

He comes home and I don’t acknowledge him. I don’t even look at him and as much as my heart is already broken I can feel it crack a little more each time.

I hear him take off his coat. Then his shoes. I close my eyes when I hear him walk over to me. I squeeze them tighter as he bends down to give me a kiss on the forehead.

I need him.

I need him.

I need him.

I want to tell him. Every molecule in my body screams for me to tell him, but I don’t. I can’t.

I can't look at him. I know that's all it will take to rip the stitches that are barely holding me together. The stitches that once removed will release more pain than I can handle. My mouth, my eyes, my heart—I have to keep them closed. It’s the only reason I haven’t been torn in two.

He whispers in my ear, tells me he loves me and I want to scream. I want to beg him not to say those words to me. To remind him that I don’t deserve them. How can he love me now? How can he be so kind and patient when I know he’s hurting, too?

These thoughts push on the stitches. I clutch at my belly to hold in the pain, but it only weakens me as I look down at my hands. They are folded, one on top of the other, over the spot that had been the source of overwhelming joy.

Just last week it was filled with life and hope. Our future.

Now its emptiness threatens to drag me into the darkness.

I feel the stitches slip. Eyes, mouth, heart—I shut them even tighter to fight against the ocean rising within. I know this is a losing fight. I know the time has come.

It starts as a whimper. Then I start to cry. And then I start to wail. I scream out against a pain greater than I have ever felt before. A pain that is mine. A pain that I deserve.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop. The tears fall in waves. Giant heart crushing waves. There’s no way I’ll ever stop.

Then, he’s here. He’s rocking me gently and telling me that it wasn’t my fault. Telling me that it will be okay. Telling me that he loves me.

He says it again. And again. And again.

He loves me.

He’s here.

Moxie Monday: Never Let Go

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Fiction Friday: [Creative Freedom]

Letters fill my head,
Begging to become words,
Begging to be released.

They tickle my brain
Until I set them free.

They travel to my hands
And tingle at my fingertips,

Whether holding a pen
Or perched over keys.
They bubble and dance
With anticipation.

They scream to be free.
And I release them
Into the world

Because I know
That setting them free
Sets me free.

Moxie Monday: Leap!

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Fiction Friday: [The Reckoning]

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Head full of fog I try to open my eyes, but it’s harder than it should be. Slowly and with full effort I finally succeed. My vision is as cloudy as my thoughts, but I am acutely aware that I am not at home.

As my eyes come into focus panic riddles my body so swiftly that I grow dizzy.

I was right, this is not my home.

In front of me is a door, but hope fades before it has a chance to flare. No knob, no handle. Not even hinges to try to unscrew. Above, below and side to side, nothing but concrete.

I’m in a concrete box.

I try to stand up. My legs are tingly and weak.

What the hell?

I gingerly shake them before attempting to rise again. Wobbly, but successful I stand and get my bearings.

Turning to face the back of the room I see a security camera in the corner, red light glowing. I stare at it wondering who is on the other side. I want to ask as much, but for the first time I realize how dry my throat is.

I swallow hard as my eyes drift over to the back wall. The fear induced gasp causes spittle to catch in my throat. A coughing fit doubles me over, hands on knees until it finally dislodges from my throat and splats onto the concrete floor.

I take a deep breath to gather my courage before looking up at the wall again.

You know what you did. Repent or die.

The words are painted across the wall. Fresh enough for beads of dark crimson to run from each letter toward the floor. My sense of smell kicks in and I choke on the metallic, coppery scent in the air.

It’s written in blood.

My brain pounds against my skull, palms grow sweaty as my body temperature skyrockets.

Backing away from the wall, the creak of the door opening stops me in my tracks. Panic sends my heart racing and I breathe so quickly I think I’m going to faint.

“Don’t turn around.”

The voice is disguised, robotic, but it is terror inducing nonetheless. I do as I’m told—solely because I am paralyzed with fear.

“You have forty-eight hours to figure out which of your sins has sent you here to your reckoning. If you succeed and repent you will be set free. If not…you will die.”

My brain goes into overdrive searching for the right words, for sins I’ve committed, a primer on how to speak, but then he is behind me and all thoughts fade away. Except one.

I don’t want to die.

Tears flow freely as I hold my breath in anticipation. That’s when I feel the pin prick of a needle sink into my neck.

*****

An unbearable screeching pushes on my brain. My eyes shoot open and I sit up--heart racing. I look around to discover that I'm in my room. Relief sweeps over me knowing that my nightmare was just that. A nightmare.

Reaching over I hit snooze before closing my eyes and laying back down. I must have drifted off again because the alarm wakes me. I stretch my arms wide and let out a little morning roar before shutting if off and taking a moment to savor the quiet.

I open my eyes ready to start the day, but instead prickly bumps rapidly spread all over my body and my breathing grows shallow. In my periphery I can see the exaggerated rise and fall of my chest. I lay frozen staring at the red letters that stain my ceiling:

See you in 48 hours.

Moxie Monday: Sail

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