This is my entry for the #BlogBattle hosted by Rachael Ritchey. This week, the theme that seemed to stand out in my mind as I envisioned the story, was something of a Horror. I hope you enjoy it!

This is my entry for the #BlogBattle hosted by Rachael Ritchey. I had a few ideas, but at some point the little comedy piece I had in mind decided it didn't want to be written, but it the end it turned out to be a Drama instead. I hope you enjoy reading it!

I just want to say thank you to everyone who voted for this story as the Week 59 battle winner! I appreciated it very much!
She’s crying again.

I know why she’s crying.

She’s been doing that a lot lately, ever since ‘The Accident’. She never cries in front of me, but I can always see the stains on her cheeks when she comes in. They're almost permanent now. I want to comfort her, but what would I say? How would I say it?

It was never meant to go this far, but... but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

It was all an accident. Just an accident.

We were young when we got married. We’re still young. We both have... had goals and dreams and careers; she once put a picture of me in the dictionary, right next to the word ‘ambitious’. It had been a joke then. Now… now it's not so funny anymore.

But I digress. We were young, and we were driven. The brief discussion we’d had about children and parenthood ended quickly with a firm decision from us both: ‘Not anytime soon.’ Neither of us were ready for the responsibility.

She told me she was pregnant that night. I’m not sure why she chose to tell me then; we were both more than a little drunk on wine, and I probably shouldn’t have been driving to begin with. I still hate myself for that decision. Things could have been so different. We were such a happy couple. Our friends always told us that if anyone in our group could become a ‘power couple’, we were…

I’m sorry, I’m wandering from my tale again. It happens so often these days, just can’t hold on to a single train of thought like I used too. Back to ‘that night’.

We argued, I lost control.

It was a stupid mistake. If things had been different… maybe I would have been happy to become a father. Or maybe the argument and the pregnancy would have damaged our marriage irreparably. Sometimes I think the miscarriage already has.

She still tries to talk to me. I know she still loves me – it’s one of the reasons why she hasn’t left yet. The other… well, she doesn’t really have anywhere else to go. Her parents died when she was young, and mine… let’s just say that they would have been happy to hear about the miscarriage. Once the slew of medical bills started coming in, our circle of friends quickly dwindled down to nothing.

Sad, really.

She’s still crying, quieter now. It means she’ll be checking on me, soon.

Sometimes I want to tell her to leave. To go and find a better life. She’s only twenty five, she shouldn’t be stuck here, in this life, because I made a mistake. She still has all that potential… and I want her to realise it. I still love her, too. I just don’t tell her that anymore. I don’t tell her much of anything.

Other times, when I can almost see her determination to just end it, I want to beg her to stay… and I feel guilty about that. But I don’t want her to leave me here, alone. I don’t say a word. Not even when she begs me to just speak to her. To say something. I wish I could, especially when I can see the beginnings of tears in her eyes again before she storms out of the room.

She always comes back, though. Always. She promises that she’ll stay, that she’ll never leave me. But I know she’ll beg again. She’ll get angry again. One day, she will leave.

So many times I’ve tried to talk to her, to give her what she wants. What she needs. But the words always get stuck, and I feel like I’m choking on them. Tears that refuse to be shed burn behind my eyes. We’re not living anymore. We’re barely existing. But it’s all we have.

Here she is now, coming into the room. Look at her. She’s a shadow of what she used to be. She looks half starved, with circles under her eyes, her hair in a tangled mess. I can see three stains on her dress. They were there yesterday, too. I see everything these days…

“Hey love.”

She always says that. I say nothing.

“Are you hungry?”

Her eyes are pleading with me.

Silence.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we’ll get you something to eat.”

That’s how I know she still loves me. She takes care of me, and she never complains.

I watch her until she disappears behind me, grasping the handles of the wheelchair. She’ll take me to the bathroom now. She’ll bathe me, she’ll feed me through a tube. Then she’ll wheel me outside and sing to me. She sings beautifully, and she sings often… these days.

She’ll sing to me, for me, filling the silence with her voice…

…because I don’t have one anymore.

In the spirit of continuing the... well, spirit of NaNoWriMo, a few of the writers from our region built a forum on which we now chat, write, offer advice AND have PROMPT SPRINT CHALLENGES! We had our first one last weekend, and it was great to get those poor, suffering and trampled creative juices flowing again. It also inspired several ideas!

Here is one of my sprint results - a short flash fiction based on the prompt - A Red Feather Boa, An Empty Pack of Cigarettes and A Passport. It might be expanded into a full short story later, it might not. Either way, please let me know what you think in the comments below!


The Nile Affair

She stared across the water, watching it lap at the sides of the moving boat. The sun was setting, and it truly made for a beautiful sight. Andrea was just happy that she could enjoy it. The first day of the cruise she had spent most of her time inside her cabin, fighting motion sickness. The sight of the sun disappearing over the horizon, tinting the water just so, almost made the whole trip worth it. 

She didn't understand why she had to join her fiancée in Egypt. Why he was digging around in the sands for ancient relics when they had everything they needed back home in good old England? It made no sense to her.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” 

She looked over as one of the gentlemen on the cruise approached her. He was some sort of writer, a free thinker – the progressive sort. John something-or-other if she remembered correctly. There were twenty people on the cruise in all, various characters from different walks of life. But of all of them, only this man seemed to constantly seek her out. Well, aside from the annoying Madame Genderie. She was one of those annoying old biddies who considered everyone else’s business her own. Kept wanting to hear about Andrea's life – hers and everyone else’s.

“Yes it is.” She finally answered him. Wouldn't hurt to be polite.

He wasn't altogether a bad looking fellow – handsome in a rugged sort of way. Her Jim was also quite handsome, but he had softer features despite what he did for a living. Andrea found herself thinking it should probably have been the other way around.

She moved her boa out of the way to get to her little shoulder bag and the cigarettes within. She had dressed for the sunset drinks that would be served shortly – a fancy affair despite the informality of of the occasion – but had wandered outside instead of socializing. After a few moments of digging she finally found the packet, but when she opened it she discovered that there were none left. She must have been too distracted to notice.

“Please, have one of mine.”

A hand appeared, holding out a small silver case containing hand rolled cigarettes. She looked up at John, and couldn't help smiling. Despite everything – and despite appearing to be quite rude when certain topics were broached – he was capable of being something of a gentleman.

“Thank you.” She smiled, taking one and leaning closer as he lit it for her. There was silence for a few minutes as he lit one for himself.

“So, you’ll be joining your fiancée soon. Are you excited?”

She sighed. “I suppose I should be. I just don’t understand why he’s out here.”

He laughed. “Not one for history?”

“I don’t mind history.” She said, a little annoyed. “I just prefer to enjoy it in the museums back home.”

“Then you don’t enjoy adventure much. Had you pegged as a conservative sort. How mundane.” He said again, leaning on the rail.

“Excuse me?” and he was back to being rude, it seemed. “I am not the conservative sort, and I like adventure as much as the next person! I certainly am NOT mundane!”

He chuckled again. “Ah, there’s fire in her yet!”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Certainly not. I just wanted to see if there was some life in you, and that you weren't just another of the sheep following everyone else around.”

“I’ll have you know that I am quite lively and fun when I want to be! I am very much my own person.” she said angrily, poking him in the chest. It was not a very ladylike thing to do, but somehow he managed to bring out the worst behaviour in her every time they spoke. He easily managed to drive her up a wall repeatedly.

She started as he grabbed her hand. “Then why are you following some man around when you clearly don’t want to?” he asked. His hand held firm, and she couldn't pull her hand away despite trying.

“Let me go.” She hissed.

“Answer my question.”

“Because I love him.”

“If you loved him, you wouldn't be complaining about joining him. You would be excited at the prospect.”

“Not necessarily. But because I love him I will join him anyway.”

“No, you won’t.” he said after watching her for a minute.

“Oh really?” she asked, wanting nothing more than to slap him now. “And how would you know?”

He stepped closer and smiled at her. “Because you’re still holding my hand.”

With shock she realized that he had stopped gripping her hand some time ago, and she had not removed her hand from his. She quickly drew it away, holding it to her chest as if she had burned it.

“I don’t like what you are implying, sir, and I would appreciate it if you would move away.”

Instead of moving away from her he stepped closer, and trapped her against the rail with his arms.

“Look me in the eye and tell me that you want me to move away. Tell me you don’t want to speak to me again. Tell me, and if I believe it, I’ll leave.”

“Move away. I don’t want to speak to you again.” She said.

He smiled.

When she went through her purse the next morning she realised she had left her passport in his room the night before. She never did get to Egypt.