This is a piece I did for weekly prompt at www.scriptic.org
She imagined it was midnight. She was sitting by the empty railway station, waiting to catch the train. Her luggage comprised of a single rucksack that was both worn and durable; much like her. She imagined herself with her newly highlighted hair cascading down her shoulders, pixelling an image of a damsel in distress. But of course, she was no damsel. And it was neither midnight, nor the railway station. It was that time between twilight and dark; and she was sitting on the floor of her place of solace since a child: the washroom.
The hot shower that was pelting her non-highlighted, raven hair was creating swirls of steam. It had even misted the mirror.
She looks at the misted mirror, swipes the glass.
“You look like the idiot you are.”
“I can still catch the train if I hurry. I won’t carry any luggage to avoid suspicion.”
“That’s a good one,” says She in her snottiest voice, “I’m so sure no one would notice the luggage you are carrying at all.”
“You are not being helpful you know.”
“Why don’t you ask help from those who put you in trouble in the first place? I hate clichés babes, but it does take two to Tango.”
Thinking of him would only make her hurt more, she knew. But she couldn’t stop the memories that rushed at her like the too hot water from the shower. His eyes; the unspoken reassurance of a life time of caring. His warmth; the welcome embrace of protection. His voice; the persuasive tone that urged her to save herself, to save the thread of relationship they shared.
But she had refused.
The mirror is misted once more. She looks at the misted mirror, swipes the glass.
“Look, I have to leave ok? I already got myself a ring and everything.”
“And you would know how exactly to look after the thing in another 6 months? If you are so compassionate, why don’t you just stay here and deal with it?”
“Dad brought me up all by himself, and you know they weren’t married. People practically deitified him for bringing me up all alone! So why can’t I.”
“Oh, i have cramps in my sides from laughing so hard. You can’t, my child, because you are a woman. Check in that holy area that he was so interested in. That is dirty. Anything that embodies that is doubly dirty. Not to mention always at fault. If you think people would welcome you with open arms, you definitely are still suffering from whatever the cock-a-maime hormone that made you do this in the first place. Women, by default, are sinners. Haven’t you heard?”
“I’m scared.” She said in a small voice.
The decision to cut off all her connections and start off a completely new life was terrifying. But she knew that it hadn’t hit her with full force yet. She was still in trance, still entrapped by the unexpected turn of events. Another day of playful frolicking had turned into an endless nightmare of days waiting for a cramp in the stomach and dark nights that begged to be splashed with crimson.
The face in the mirror is blurred with steam and moisture. She turns the door handle, wrapped in a bathrobe, that bulges slightly around her mid-section. She put feet out of the bathroom door.
She looks at the misted mirror, and swipes the glass one final time.
For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Venus Moon at http://venusianmoon.com/ gave me this prompt: She looks at the misted mirror, swipes the glass.
I gave kgwaite at http://writinginthemarginsburstingattheseams.blogspot.com/ this prompt: Heaven that leads to hell