literature

Stitches

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Literature Text

Her scars haven’t completely healed up yet. Her knees are cracked; the scabs peel and curl at the edges. With her fingers, she traces the red and blue knots on her calves. They pull at her skin, stretching over, back, across—a pattern stitched by the heavy gold chain in his fist.  </p>

She tries very, very hard not to think.

---
She used to be young.

She met him on the beach, when the sky was sleet-gray and her toes were buried pretty-as-you-please in the sand. He said his name was John. He was dressed in a red flannel jacket, and later, when she started to shiver, he draped it around her shoulders. He sat beside her and held her hand. He told her she was beautiful, and he smiled. When the sun set, he popped the pins out of her hair and it fell around her shoulders, soft as sea glass. And he kissed her, too, buried her pretty-as-you-please in the sand.

She’s been with him ever since.

She’s sitting on the edge of her bed now. A bun sits atop her head, a few lonely twists of hair escaping from it. Her eyes are a brilliant, brilliant blue, and her hair is the color of wet sand.

Sometimes she wishes she could go back to the beach.

Images of John fill her head, coming too fast to see. She remembers he stood by the kitchen table, tasting a stew that she burned to a crisp. He stood by the altar, and she couldn’t read his eyes. He stood by the truck, gas pump in one hand. The gasoline was dripping everywhere, but he didn’t notice. He stared across the road at a blond woman who kept adjusting her bra. He followed her. I think she might need help. I’ll be home later. Jesus, Naomi, I’m just going to see if her car’s broke down. But he didn’t come home. She waited and waited and waited, and he didn’t come in until noon the next day. Where’ve you been, John?

He pulled the chain from around his neck and stitched her mouth closed.


---
The tears won’t come, although she wishes they would. A few years ago, she may have cried, but now everything is locked up inside her. After that first time, she sealed herself shut, pulled the shades over her eyes. She didn’t want to see, and now that she can, she wants it all to go away. She just wants everything to stop.
He keeps stitching her up, but her life keeps unraveling.

She digs her palms into her knees, scraping off the rusty scabs, and fresh blood oozes out. She feels raw all over, broken and bled. Make it stop…

The bedroom is dark and damp. The air is heavy and wet, punctuated only by the faint wisps of cigarette smoke that linger around the corners of the ceiling. She stares at the smoke, and she wishes she were on fire. Maybe, if she were literally ablaze, her feet would finally move, take her away from here.

Downstairs, a door opens. She tenses, afraid to even breathe. Sweat glistens on her forehead, across her lip. She hears footsteps. They come closer, echoing off the stairs, the walls, the hollowness in her stomach. Her heartbeat stutters to match his pace. He’s here.

He doesn’t look at her when he comes in. An aging blue jacket, shot through with gray, is slung over his shoulder. His hair is brown and brittle, and around his neck is a heavy gold chain (stitch, stitch, stitch). She feels cold.

He looks at her then.

“Jesus, Naomi, put some clothes on.”

Her throat closes over and she looks down. Ah. She knew she was forgetting something. She pulls the denim skirt back up over her hips, hiding her mottled skin. She feels ashamed, all hot and uncomfortable. He always makes her feel like this, like she’s done something wrong.

She doesn’t say anything.

He starts taking off his boots, and her heart sinks. It’s suddenly too heavy in her chest, and it drops all the way down to her feet, holding her there. She ought to do something. Open her mouth. Move. Something.

“I should probably go get some ironing done,” she says quietly. Her tongue trips over itself.

He throws down his belt. It snaps and writhes on the floor. She winces.

“Christ, Naomi, you’ve had all day. Don’t you ever do anything when I’m not here?”

No, she doesn’t. She waits for him to come home. She jumps when the refrigerator cuts on. She thinks about what an idiot she is for not leaving.

He grunts and takes off his shirt.

“I’m going to shower. Wait for me.”

Waiting is what got her here, waiting for him to stop being empty, waiting for him to fill her up, waiting for kisses, waiting for Jeopardy! to go off because he always comes home after Jeopardy!, but sometimes he doesn’t, and she keeps waiting, and her mind is thinking too much, trying to save her. Just wait.

She is so tired of waiting.

The door to the bathroom shuts, and all she can hear is the sick stammering of her heart.

There’s a mirror on the wall. When she looks into it, she doesn’t recognize herself. Her skin is too pale, waxy, and there’s a yellowing bruise on her right eyebrow. Her eyes are red.

Before, when she got tired, she just shut down, like she was on autopilot. She let everything happen, watched it flash by. She tried not to feel.

But now she’s tired of it. She can’t keep waiting, keep hoping that she’ll look at him one day and recognize the boy who sat with her by the ocean.

If she waits much longer, she might never get out.

On the other side of the wall, the shower hisses.

She stands up.

She walks down the hall.

She grabs his car keys.

Naomi walks out the door before she can change her mind.
I don't know if this is going to work. I dislike uploading stories on here.

Anyway, this is a short story I wrote for my creative writing class. The idea for this came during a meditative writing exercise at UVA Young Writers Workshop '08. Seshun Two, if anyone is reading this who was there. (HAI, SARAH!) Don't think I always do dark stuff, because I don't, but Naomi wouldn't shut up until I wrote this. So. There.

Warning: it's sort of violent, but not really. Just alluded to.
© 2008 - 2024 sunni-sideup
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IactuallyShitRainbow's avatar
Beautiful. Wrenching, depressing, but beautiful.