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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
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15 For 15 Entries ~ January 2011 #715951 added January 19, 2011 at 5:28pm
Restrictions: None
Jan 19 ~ Gauze
"Very funny, Rachel.”
From the doorway, Jonathon’s voice sounded harsh, hollow. The sound hung in the air like smoke on a frigid day. Light from the hallway rushed over and around him; casting a crisp shadow that streaked across the hardwood floor from the toes of his loafers, bent and snaked up the end of the bed, and slashed across Rachel’s naked, still body.
A twinge of guilt vibrated inside him.
Any man would look at Rachel and wonder how Jonathon could have cheated on such a goddess. But they didn’t know her. Beauty doesn’t count – doesn’t exist -- in a life riddled with anxiety. Rachel couldn’t cope with anything. He wasn’t talking about a spider in the corner or a stranger knocking at the door. Those were the little things that rattled normal people. But Rachel, she leaned on him for everything. She couldn’t cook because she was afraid she’d burn something. She couldn’t drive because even if she was careful, someone else could run her off the road. She couldn’t talk out loud, because, what? Someone would hear her? HE would hear her?
Guilt turned to anger, justifying his latest actions.
“Nice bandages, Rachel. Perfect. All the better not to see me with.”
So she’d walked in on him and Kimmy? Boo-hoo, Rachel. He was at the end of his rope with her anyhow. Ready to walk out the door, just unable to bring himself to that conversation, where he’d have to tell her it was over, that she was going to be gone from his life. Gone.
And Kimmy, though no supermodel, drove her own car, talked his ear off. Hell, she’d even killed a wolf spider the other day. Those things get big! She just pulled off her shoe and whacked it. Didn’t ask for his help at all.
Maybe he should have boinked Kimmy at a hotel, instead of on their couch. But, Rachel never came back downstairs after retiring for the evening. Why the hell had she come down the other night?
He took a couple steps closer. He sneered at the white bandages wrapped around her eyes and secured under her chin. She’d painted her lips with exquisite care. Blood red. Sexy. Her skin gleamed like polished marble. Hating himself for it, he felt himself stir.
“All right, Rachel. You’ve made your point. Get up now. We need to talk.”
He took another step, to the side of the bed.
Reaching down, he grasped her forearm. It was deathly cold.
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