The manuscript beckoned, its pages fluttering in the cool breeze. What was it, really? A few hundred pages, bound with homemade panache, a cover of personal artwork, a few doodles in between the pages of antique white paper. She stared at it, loathing it, adoring it.
She thought maybe the manuscript, if she stared at it long enough, might speak to her. Oh, not in the sense of actual speaking, no—but if she could just focus, just think hard enough, there would be a connection of sorts and this would be over.
A brisk wind tearing through the porch rails made her button her sweater and pull up the faux-fur collar. The manuscript fluttered. The manuscript didn’t move. The manuscript didn’t speak.
Her eyes lifted to the cold, gray ocean, whitecaps blowing over the steel surface. There was a ship far, far out, its red hull showing now and then as the water lifted it, disappearing as it sunk in a concavity of undulating waves. Up, down, up, down, all alone in the vast water.
The manuscript fluttered.
Her eyes turned to her creation, her time, her outpouring of love and hate, her planning, her intimate thoughts couched in a character of her own design. She thought of the pile of rejection slips on the desk. The beautiful teak desk, the one she inherited from her aunt. It seemed impossible that such a magnificent desk could hold the ugliness of those slips, some harsh, some neutral, some just plain mean. She had swallowed them all, holding the words in a small place in her heart, using them to form armor and shield. But the armor was soft and penetrable still.
“I’ll throw you in the ocean, I will!” Her loathing rose in her throat, nearly choking her. She stood, nails biting into her palms, lip chewed raw. “I’ll do it. I swear I’ll get rid of you.”
The manuscript fluttered.
She picked it up. The heft always surprised her. It shouldn’t, not after the weeks and months she had poured into it. Not after the broiling hate, the burning affection, the hurt and pain and love and betrayal, not after the fear and courage, no, she shouldn’t be surprised at all. But the heft, the heft of it all.
She ran to the water, ran before her nerves got to her. She stopped short at the ocean’s edge, waves lapping at her shoes. She waded into the cold shallows, not caring about the leather, not caring about the denim, not caring about the wool.
The manuscript clung to her. She cradled it like a baby. A string of seaweed washed up around one foot. The wind blew, biting her ears, stinging her eyes. She held her arms out, fingers clutched around the manuscript. The manuscript fluttered.
The roiling water shouted at her, mocking her. Do it, the water said. Do it, and you will have peace. Do it, and you will loose your soul. Do it, and let go.
Her mouth opened as a scream ripped out and was snatched away by the wind. Her hands refused to let go. Her unwilling fingers ached with the push-pull effort. She wanted to release, she didn’t want to release. Her feet grew numb and her arms drooped against the sweater. Tears chilled on her cheeks. Her throat burned.
She walked to the cottage, opened the cheery yellow back door, stepped over the threshold. As if nothing happened. As if she nearly hadn’t lost everything. As if everything was alright.
She placed the manuscript on the glass table. The manuscript fluttered as a stray burst of breeze found its way into her bright kitchen. She closed the door and poured herself a bowl of chocolate cereal. She put it in the blue bowl, the one that reminded her of bright blue eyes. She poured chocolate milk, and fell to the pleasure of eating.
Nikki Spencer
9-23-11
The theme “Drown your sorrows”
Fiction Friday
