[Storm – Family Short Story]
Storm - Family Short Story
It was cold. I found it hard to swallow as I choked back tears. We had another fight. I’d locked myself outside on the balcony to get fresh air and clear my head; it was pounding uncontrollably. I doubled over and pulled the scruffy end of jeans up to see a multi-coloured bruise, I rubbed it tenderly, and I kept wincing at the pain. I lowered myself down and lay against the door, my hand was shaking badly. I grabbed the packet of fags and stole one from it, I put it in my mouth and it nearly fell out due to the fact my bottom lip was quivering. I took the box of matches and flicked it across the box the flame lit up my face; I stuck it out towards the end of the fag. I inhaled the sweet smoke, it soothed me. After what seemed like forever I rose and went inside. The mirror was a cruel object, it showed my frizzy blonde hair which needed dyed again and a good brushing. My eyes were like a ghost’s, hollow, the mascara was running down my face. The clothes I was wearing looked nothing like the ones I’d have worn when I was first going out with him. They consisted of a holy green jumper over a black tank top and black sweat pants finished with the necklace I’d gotten for our anniversary.
The door downstairs was flung violently open, I turned and wiped away the mascara because I didn’t want to seem weak, was another fight about to break out? I was just as cruel and violently flung things in the air at him, when we did. I watched as his guilty face peered around the door; I twisted my neck around and crossed my arms, so I’d hopefully seem unbreakable.
He came in and closed the door to the apartment softly and glided in; not speaking. He set his luxury designer briefcase on the sticky cheap table. I watched him look around the apartment.
Pillows from the couch had been thrown around the room; a vase my mother gave me was smashed upon the floor and one of his golf clubs lay among the wreckage of the room.
“Where’s dinner?” he finally asked in what seemed like a slightly superior, insulted voice.
“In the packet.” I gestured towards the fridge.
“Why isn’t it made, it’s not like you have anything better to do with your day?”
Here came the storm: the mighty one with violet skies, stricken with flashes of lightning and billowing clouds.
“I had other things to do.” I mumbled.
“Like what, clean?” He said sarcastically.
“No, I had to sit by the telephone to make sure I didn’t miss my loving husband’s call, oh yeah but then again that never happens!” I was yelling now.
“Oh, don’t you dare get on your high and mighty horse with me!” He towered over me with his long spindly finger pointing directly into my face.
I went out to the balcony again and ripped the packet of cigarettes off the table and savagely tore one from the box and whipped into my mouth.
“Don’t walk away from me, I’m speaking to you… “He continued chastising me like a child and then he seen the fag in my hands, “What have I told you about smoking in my apartment?” I heard something familiar in his voice but his face displayed a new wicked mask. He suddenly had a vice grip on my wrist and was twisting it around, in hope of me dropping the cigarette.
“You’re hurting me…” I said uselessly.
The fag fell over the side of the balcony, and he stormed off into the house. I cowered down into a protective squatting position against the rails of the balcony and stroked my wrist. I wept.
__END__
