Rain (short fiction - 900 words)

2016

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I'm so glad to finally be sharing this! This is a short story I wrote for my final project in the 2016 fall semester. As I enter my last (yes, last!) semester at UCF before graduating in August, I've been going back and reading my work, reflecting on how far I've come. Writing is my passion and to know that I've learned so much and have seen my confidence grow (anyone who knows anything about writing will tell you the first draft of anything is shit, but you have to write it anyway) in the last few years has been nothing short of amazing. 

So without further ado, here is a fiction piece I'd like to share. I hope you like it. 

Rain

I shiver as I slam the door to my apartment. “Love coming home to a tiny box,” I say to the blinding white walls. Charlie, my fat orange cat, rubs against me and I feel the vibration from his purring against my ankles. He looks up at me and meows.

“It was another hellish day at Samson and Associates. How was your day?” I say to him as I toss my bag down. I liked my old job better (got to work from home sometimes) but Justin started showing up there and causing scenes so I had to leave. I strip off my jacket and kick off my heels, now soaked to the inside. I just want to sit down in front of the fireplace and with a glass of wine. After feeding Charlie, I throw some logs into the fireplace and start the fire. I only have half a glass of wine left in the bottle but that will have to do.

I jump when I hear a notification on my phone. Digging it out of my bag, I see it’s Justin. I slide the screen open, my hand shaking. “You can’t avoid me forever. I’m not going to sign the papers until you talk to me. By the way, I hope you like your new job.” My heart pounds. Has he found out where I work already? But I don’t get to think about this for too long because I have to throw up.

 “Damn it,” I say. I make it to the bathroom just in time to land in front of the toilet and lift the lid. My knees sink into the plush rug and before I know it, it’s over. My hands and legs shake as I stand and brush my teeth. My stomach always gets upset when I’m stressed. I should feel better since I left my abusive husband but I just feel sick. It doesn’t help that he won’t sign the papers and he won’t stop harassing me. I keep meaning to go the doctor, but I’d feel silly. It’s just stress. Starting over at the age of thirty-one is tough. Even tougher when you and your family are devout Catholics. Divorce is not allowed in my religion. This must be why I feel so sick. It’s my penance.

I tried going back to St. Paul’s last week to attend mass. I hadn’t been to a service in months and walked in a few minutes late. I sat in the back and listened as the choir sang “I Am the Bread of Life.” Mom stood in the front row on the left with the other sopranos. After scanning the large room, I found Dad sitting about four rows back, his bald head shining under the overhead lights. Bert was sitting next to him, his hand stroking his dark brown beard. I smiled. I miss him, I thought. I’ll have to talk to him after the service. Then I felt eyes on me and turned to my right. A woman I had only met a couple times was glaring at me. Once I made eye contact, she pointedly stared down at my left hand, bare except for a pale strip of skin where my wedding band used to be. Then she sniffed and jerked her head back to the front. Her husband gave me a sideways glance and a frown. I rolled my eyes and looked back to the front of the room and caught my mother’s eye. She smiled and tilted her head to one side. It was a sad smile. A couple other people must have noticed and turned to look at me with expressions of half-surprise, half-disapproval. I felt like I was being pushed out of the room. I smiled a big, toothy grin and then dropped the smile, rolled my eyes and quietly put my purse strap over my shoulder and snuck out. Judgmental assholes.

Won’t be going back there again, I think as I pour a glass of wine. My phone buzzes again and my chest tightens. If I don’t respond, he’ll just keep calling and texting. He doesn’t know where I live but I don’t want to take any chances. I hit reply: “Please just sign the papers, Justin. I don’t think meeting is a good idea.”

His reply comes seconds later filled with a string of profanities and I turn the phone off and put it in the top drawer of my dresser. I am a prisoner in my own home. I’m afraid to go anywhere because he might find me. And if I were to escape, where would I go? I barely have any friends left, thanks to Justin telling them horrible lies about me and forbidding me from seeing them.

Orange-pink light streams in from the blinds. I peek out, halfway expecting to see Justin’s silver BMW outside. There are only the usual cars in the parking lot and the asphalt is wet from the rain. We have more sunny days in Seattle than people realize but today is not one of them. The tall emerald trees across the street stand out against the golden sky and silver mountains in the distance.

After a hot shower that leaves my skin pink, I get a glimpse in the mirror of my puffy red eyes, blotchy from crying. I look away quickly and rummage through my drawers for sweats and a blue plaid flannel shirt then set to work organizing my closet. I’ve already started giving things away and I didn’t expect it to be so refreshing. No one knows why I’m giving so many clothes away. They don’t even know about the weekly Goodwill drop-offs. My apartment was almost empty. My mother was proud of me for being so organized. My friend Amber was thrilled to get my new clothes with tags still on them. “Take it, I don’t like it,” I told them. Or “It doesn’t fit me right.” I didn’t give away the Zoloft, though; I just threw it in the trash.

I have it all planned out. I’m going to jump off the Aurora Bridge at midnight on Easter. It’s kind of poetic because Easter represents re-birth and I was born on Easter thirty-one years ago. It will be the perfect end to the total fluke that is my life. I wasn’t meant to be born. Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong, so there’s no point. Suicide isn’t allowed in my religion, but then again, neither is divorce so I’m already screwed.

I was an “oops” baby, as my mother puts it. My mother—sweet, church-going, choir-singing Nancy—had been quite surprised when I came along ten years after my older brother, Bert. Bert’s real name is Robert, but did he choose to be called Rob or Bob? No, the Urban-Outfitter-wearing, bushy-bearded Starbucks aficionado insists on Bert. Probably thinks it’s ironic.

My dad is a drunk. He’s the mean kind who says the nastiest things, things that cut you to your core and leave you bleeding. Then he rubs the proverbial salt in the wound the next day when he claims to remember nothing. One night—I think it was New Years’ Eve ’99—he was angry that I didn’t clean the bathroom properly and so I was a “whore.” I told him I was honored that I had graduated from simply being a “bitch.” He didn’t appreciate my 15-year-old wit so he slapped me across the face. Mom pretended not to notice any of this.

Fast-forward through countless loser boyfriends who either cheated, hit me, called me names (or all three) to 2005 when I graduated from the University of Washington. I was searching for an apartment when I met a handsome real estate broker named Justin. We were married within a year. My parents thought I must have been pregnant, but what I’ve never told them is that I just wanted to get away from them.

They loved Justin, as did everyone. He was so charming, almost too charming. But he slowly became less charming to me when we were alone. The more stressed he became, the more he drank. And the more he drank . . . It started small, with light shoves here and there, then graduated to kicks and hair-pulling. I tried everything to make it better. I was determined not to get divorced.   

One night a few months ago, I heard the key in the front door and I knew he was in a mood. I could tell by the force he used: if it was quiet, a gentle clicking, then he was in an okay mood. But if it was noisy and struggling with the lock, it was going to be a bad night. If he slammed the door, I may as well just run and hide.

He walked through the door, his mouth set in a hard line and his brows creased together. The heavy door slammed behind him. He sighed loudly as he put his briefcase on the entryway table and tossed his keys on top. He turned to me. “What did you do today?”

Wow, what a greeting. “Well, hello to you, too!” I said, smiling. “I worked today but I’ve been so tired—“

He walked over and rested a hand on the couch. I smelled booze. He must have stopped at Bruno’s on the way home, threw back a few with the guys. “Is that why dinner isn’t ready?”

“Yeah, I just haven’t felt well all day and I was resting.”

He huffed. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well, Samantha. I’m tired too but I don’t get to rest today. I worked all day and now I’m starving and there’s nothing to eat.”

“I worked all day too—“

He waved his hand in the air. “They let you come and go as you please. I own my own business, Sam. It’s not the same. You can stop and rest anytime you want. Hell, you can take a nap whenever you feel like it.”

I sat up straight, my eyes wide. “Are you serious? I have deadlines, too. I can’t take a nap whenever I feel like it,” I said.

“Okay, enough,” he said, his voice louder. He slammed his hand onto the back of the sofa. A throw pillow went flying across the room. “You seem to be well enough to argue with me so you’re well enough to make dinner. Get to it. I’m going to take a shower.” He turned to leave.  

“Whoa, Justin. Hold on just a second. I know you’ve been stressed lately but you don’t get to treat me this way.”

He stopped, his back to me. He was still a moment. Then I heard him say so quietly, I almost didn’t make it out, “Stop. Now. I’m done with this. I’m at my wit’s end with you.” He turned his head and I thought he was going to look at me but all I saw was his profile before he started walking upstairs again.

I bit my lip. I really didn’t want to fight but I had to stand up for myself. If I didn’t he would think this was OK and it definitely was not. I stood and walked toward him. “Justin. I know you’re tired but please don’t speak to me this way. You’ve changed recently and I understand you’re stressed—“

He dropped his fist onto the wooden banister so hard that I thought it might break. When I looked back up at him, he was glaring at me. 

I continued. “I understand but you can’t—“

He turned and came down the stairs, his hands balled into fists and his mouth set into a hard line. “You don’t understand anything! And you don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do in my own house! Now shut up and go make something. Now.”

“No!” I said.

The last thing I remember is the warm yellow glow of the hallway fading to grey then black. When I woke up, I was lying on the couch. How did I get here? I had no recollection and only knew that my face hurt. He mumbled a half-hearted apology the next morning but I had already made up my mind. I’d had enough. After he left for the day, I set to work packing up my suitcase.

I snap out of my reverie when I feel something sharp against my hand. I look down and see Justin and I smiling, standing in front of St. Paul’s. My wedding dress had such a long train that Justin had accidentally stepped on it after the ceremony when we were taking pictures. He had made some joke about doing it on purpose so I didn’t change my mind and run away. I never imagined I’d be leaving him just five years later. He was so kind and so funny. But last year he opened his own real estate firm and has not been the same since. He took up drinking as his main hobby and changed into a different person.

My throat feels tight and I hear a plane rumbling overhead. I suddenly realize I’m going to throw up so I throw down the photo and run to the bathroom, which is thankfully just across the hall. After my stomach is emptied and I’ve brushed my teeth with shaky hands, I open up the cabinet under the sink to look for mouthwash. I push aside a yellow box of tampons and grab the large blue bottle of Scope behind it. Then I freeze and stare at the yellow box. I haven’t used those in a while. About two months. Shit. No, it can’t be. Justin and I tried to get pregnant for years and it never happened. I throw on a sweater and boots and head to the Walgreens on the corner.

A half hour later I’m back, a small plastic bag in my hand that holds a pink and white box. Even before I pee on the stick, I know there will be two pink lines. I know I will have to tell Justin. But that can wait. Everything can wait.

After gently placing the stick on the counter, I walk to the window and push aside the white curtains. It’s started to rain harder and I can barely see the evergreen trees across the street. There are a couple thirty-somethings outside my patio on the sidewalk standing on either side of a little blonde girl. They are holding her hands and lifting her up as she jumps and splashes in puddles. She crouches down and pops up into the air higher than before and lands hard in a huge puddle. Water shoots up like a wave and gets the dad square in the face. He’s drenched. The little girl giggles and covers her mouth with her hands. I laugh and the sound echoes throughout my tiny apartment.