HOME | DD

Description
As the rain came down upon her worn out roof, the smoke of a cigarette twirled magnificently in the air before her.  She lifted the skinny white cylinder, packed with tobacco, nicotine, and rat poison, to her lips, thinking how pure and angry the flavor was.  She too was pure and angry.  The rain fell harder and the cigarette burned faster with every drag taken between her pale pink lips.

“Darling, darling, darling,” she whispered to no one but herself.  “Darling, you are no cigarette.  The world used to love them.  Before anyone figured out they were killers, they were merely a dirty little habit.  You, darling---no one has ever loved you.” She knew full well someone had, but at this moment, it didn’t matter.

The candlelight bounced off of the developing pools of salt water in her eyes.  She felt the tears burn and tingle as their boughs broke, exposing her soul to condemnation and weakness.  But no one was here now, she was alone.  Looking down, she noticed the veins in her feet.  The purple serpents beneath her ivory skin were filled with life while the most vital organ in her body was not.  Another drag would fix that.

The phone rang, its request for attention denied.  Her voice echoed through the parlor of her restored Victorian rental unit.  That’s how it was referred to in the ad—“Restored Victorian Rental Unit. Two BR, FP, new kitchen & HW floors.  A must see.”  Her curiosity had been peaked early one Sunday morning by the end of this very small ad.  She had searched for months for a new place to live, and thought that perhaps this would be the one.  Even with the upset stomach that had plagued her for a week, she rushed to the house after scheduling a visit with the owner who lived around the corner.  The moment she stepped over the threshold, she knew it was hers.  The architectural details were too much to pass up—old glass mirrors built into walls, a splendid fireplace with hand carving on the mantel, grand crown molding, beautiful craftsmanship.  The restoration had preserved perfectly what had been so many years ago.  “Move in day is when?”

Her mind was brought back by the interruption of the answering machine.  “Hey, this is Caroline.  You know what’s up.”

A long beep followed her warm, personality filled message and she laughed at its poignancy.

“Answer the phone.  Please. I know this is hard, but it’s my loss as much as yours. You can’t just cut me out of your life…our life.  Caroli…”

The machine trusted to give her his message ended his call.  She knew that voice and she knew it well.  For three long years she took his calls, his love, and more flowers than Martha Stuart ever arranged.  They were a team—inseparable, and ultimately the definition of love.  Things had changed though, and she didn’t know why.  Now she was in love with loneliness and those damn cigarettes.

“Filthy little habit,” she said with a chuckle as she slid the pack across her side table.  She had always adored this table.  Since she was a little girl, it had sat in her aunt’s living room.  The wash was now rubbing off, and the drawer on the side refused to close entirely, but she found it impossible to part with.  It had character, much like herself, and beneath its dingy surface and broken extras, she saw its beauty.  It’s hard to part with beauty.

Her body rose from her chair and made its way into the kitchen.  She stood on the cold floor staring at the sink, more specifically the drain.  She gazed for a moment, forgetting about the cup of tea that had surely turned bitter by now, the one she poured over forty minutes ago.  She saw the face, the body, the tiny limp hands that had been haunting her mind for going on two months.  Another tear fell from the corner of her eye and its movement motioned her back to reality.  Wiping the cold saline from her chin, she picked up the Tetley from the counter and took a large sip, maybe even a gulp.  Noticing the chill of the liquid which was supposed to be hot, she poured it down the drain, watching as it looped and flowed so easily.  Observation, she though, is the key to life and all that is beautiful.  Her aunt had taught her that.  In an act of unintentional abandon, the light bulb above her strawberry blonde head went dark.

She left it, that bulb, in its socket.  Restlessness swept over her body as she stood in the newfound darkness.  The rain had slowed and the icy wind had picked up speed.  The perfectly positioned gate in her courtyard-style backyard area squeaked with each gust.  She was lenient in calling her backyard a backyard.  There was no grass, after all, only an abundance of strategically placed lilies, chrysanthemums, zinnias, and a willow tree.  How a willow grew in the city was more than she could understand, but she took it to be a miracle and embraced its elegance.  With less than ideal soil, glass shards included, the majestic loveliness grew, its spindly branches seeming to hug the gates opening with maternal embrace.  She loved that tree.

Resting again in the same chair she had sat in all evening for only a moment longer, she decided on a walk.  Perhaps the misty cold dampness of the night air would snap her out of this dreadful daze.  She knew he, the voice on the machine, would argue with her decision to walk alone on the empty city streets, but she needed this walk.  It might save her.

The charcoal colored pea coat smelled of his cologne.  They had had linked elbows on a walk through the park sometime last year.  That was the same day he had asked her to become his wife.  She gleefully accepted the offer with a kiss on the cheek.  She took in the smell of late-fall, of the bare trees and the start of the holiday season.  She inhaled his scent and touched his hair, pulling him closer and never wanting to let go. His brown eyes permeated her soulful blue windows that night.  It had rained then too, but she hadn’t been alone.

As the door swung open, she inhaled the frigid air doused with car exhaust.  Pulling her coat tighter around her chest, she smiled at the streetlights reflection on the wet stone beneath her feet.  Her veins were now covered with scarlet wool socks and her favorite Nikes, but the stone was still exposed and cold.  A delicate reddish curl blew into her eyes, reminding her of the walk.  She locked the door and glanced at the dark windows, unintentionally and unconsciously saying goodbye.

There were few cars on the roads that night.  She wondered where each of the few were going.  They were probably on their way to a warm home and a happy family.  As she waited to cross the avenue, she studied a man waiting at the light.  She watched him for a minute or two before he noticed her and smiled.  Her eyes retreated in an act of self consciousness and she paced her steps across the road.  She passed Sal’s Pizzeria, its neon sign now cold and gray. They closed at 10.  She and the voice on the answering machine had often eaten at Sal’s; she loved the crispy texture of their crust.  Looking in the now darkened windows, she reminisced.  She saw him at their table, third one from the left, tying his straw wrapper in a knot while she smiled in adoration at his childishness.  He really was beautiful.  His love and dedication to her permeated his every movement.  She was his and he was hers—forever.  A siren blared in the distance, its eerie sound made sharper in the bitter air.  The dining area was made dark once again as she turned to continue on.

For blocks she walked, her feet knowing a familiar path.  She craved another cigarette, but remembered her only pack was on the side table.  Nothing was open, so she attempted to ignore the craving like she had for several months in the past.  An attempt in vain, she thought.  She dug her cold and seemingly fragile hands into her pockets, now walking faster.  She hoped she had blown out the candle before leaving, as it isn’t good to let them burn unattended, especially in a restored Victorian rental unit.

The streetlight a block ahead flickered like the wink of an old sailor.  Her father had been a sailor.  He died many years ago, when she was only 19.  For this reason, she winked back.  Finally she came to her destination, though she was unsure if she had truly meant to end here.  The nine steps that led to the door were different than hers.  These were brick, not stone, and they didn’t possess the same glowing damp appeal.  They were nine simple steps, nine steps that anyone could conquer—anyone but her.  As she climbed their solid harshness, she counted.  “One…two…three…four...”  The task was easier than it had initially seemed.  “Five…six…seven…eight…”

It happened.  What she feared, why she hadn’t come back for what seemed like forever.  She dropped to her knees as she ascended the ninth step.  Through her jeans she felt the coldness she had felt in her spine two months prior.  It had been an emergency then, just as it was now.  Her face in her hands, she wept at the foot of the dark wooden door before her, in an attempt of forgiveness and hatred of herself.  She had no control over her tears or her cries of frustration.  The door opened and she was encircled in warmth.  The faint scent on her coat was now not so faint, not a memory.

“Darling, darling, darling,” he whispered in her ear as he picked her trembling body off of the stoop.  “You’re here now, you’ve come back.  Don’t let it torture you so.”

Her crystal eyes swept across his face, the lines which comprised it being chiseled and hard.  A somber melody played in the background, one they had picked out together.  The face she saw in the kitchen earlier that night was back; the body and the tiny hands.  Now she saw the doll sized coffin, cream colored like the skin of what lay inside, and the gerber daisies.  She thought such flowers to be appropriate.  She saw his tears and heard the haunting sobs that echoed in her ears.  She hadn’t cried then, she was too heavily medicated, but she cried now; she cried into his shoulder and he held her.

“I don’t know how it happened…I don’t know, I don’t…I tripped on the last step…the ninth step…I don’t know…”

Description
As the rain came down upon her worn out roof, the smoke of a cigarette twirled magnificently in the air before her.  She lifted the skinny white cylinder, packed with tobacco, nicotine, and rat poison, to her lips, thinking how pure and angry the flavor was.  She too was pure and angry.  The rain fell harder and the cigarette burned faster with every drag taken between her pale pink lips.

“Darling, darling, darling,” she whispered to no one but herself.  “Darling, you are no cigarette.  The world used to love them.  Before anyone figured out they were killers, they were merely a dirty little habit.  You, darling---no one has ever loved you.” She knew full well someone had, but at this moment, it didn’t matter.

The candlelight bounced off of the developing pools of salt water in her eyes.  She felt the tears burn and tingle as their boughs broke, exposing her soul to condemnation and weakness.  But no one was here now, she was alone.  Looking down, she noticed the veins in her feet.  The purple serpents beneath her ivory skin were filled with life while the most vital organ in her body was not.  Another drag would fix that.

The phone rang, its request for attention denied.  Her voice echoed through the parlor of her restored Victorian rental unit.  That’s how it was referred to in the ad—“Restored Victorian Rental Unit. Two BR, FP, new kitchen & HW floors.  A must see.”  Her curiosity had been peaked early one Sunday morning by the end of this very small ad.  She had searched for months for a new place to live, and thought that perhaps this would be the one.  Even with the upset stomach that had plagued her for a week, she rushed to the house after scheduling a visit with the owner who lived around the corner.  The moment she stepped over the threshold, she knew it was hers.  The architectural details were too much to pass up—old glass mirrors built into walls, a splendid fireplace with hand carving on the mantel, grand crown molding, beautiful craftsmanship.  The restoration had preserved perfectly what had been so many years ago.  “Move in day is when?”

Her mind was brought back by the interruption of the answering machine.  “Hey, this is Caroline.  You know what’s up.”

A long beep followed her warm, personality filled message and she laughed at its poignancy.

“Answer the phone.  Please. I know this is hard, but it’s my loss as much as yours. You can’t just cut me out of your life…our life.  Caroli…”

The machine trusted to give her his message ended his call.  She knew that voice and she knew it well.  For three long years she took his calls, his love, and more flowers than Martha Stuart ever arranged.  They were a team—inseparable, and ultimately the definition of love.  Things had changed though, and she didn’t know why.  Now she was in love with loneliness and those damn cigarettes.

“Filthy little habit,” she said with a chuckle as she slid the pack across her side table.  She had always adored this table.  Since she was a little girl, it had sat in her aunt’s living room.  The wash was now rubbing off, and the drawer on the side refused to close entirely, but she found it impossible to part with.  It had character, much like herself, and beneath its dingy surface and broken extras, she saw its beauty.  It’s hard to part with beauty.

Her body rose from her chair and made its way into the kitchen.  She stood on the cold floor staring at the sink, more specifically the drain.  She gazed for a moment, forgetting about the cup of tea that had surely turned bitter by now, the one she poured over forty minutes ago.  She saw the face, the body, the tiny limp hands that had been haunting her mind for going on two months.  Another tear fell from the corner of her eye and its movement motioned her back to reality.  Wiping the cold saline from her chin, she picked up the Tetley from the counter and took a large sip, maybe even a gulp.  Noticing the chill of the liquid which was supposed to be hot, she poured it down the drain, watching as it looped and flowed so easily.  Observation, she though, is the key to life and all that is beautiful.  Her aunt had taught her that.  In an act of unintentional abandon, the light bulb above her strawberry blonde head went dark.

She left it, that bulb, in its socket.  Restlessness swept over her body as she stood in the newfound darkness.  The rain had slowed and the icy wind had picked up speed.  The perfectly positioned gate in her courtyard-style backyard area squeaked with each gust.  She was lenient in calling her backyard a backyard.  There was no grass, after all, only an abundance of strategically placed lilies, chrysanthemums, zinnias, and a willow tree.  How a willow grew in the city was more than she could understand, but she took it to be a miracle and embraced its elegance.  With less than ideal soil, glass shards included, the majestic loveliness grew, its spindly branches seeming to hug the gates opening with maternal embrace.  She loved that tree.

Resting again in the same chair she had sat in all evening for only a moment longer, she decided on a walk.  Perhaps the misty cold dampness of the night air would snap her out of this dreadful daze.  She knew he, the voice on the machine, would argue with her decision to walk alone on the empty city streets, but she needed this walk.  It might save her.

The charcoal colored pea coat smelled of his cologne.  They had had linked elbows on a walk through the park sometime last year.  That was the same day he had asked her to become his wife.  She gleefully accepted the offer with a kiss on the cheek.  She took in the smell of late-fall, of the bare trees and the start of the holiday season.  She inhaled his scent and touched his hair, pulling him closer and never wanting to let go. His brown eyes permeated her soulful blue windows that night.  It had rained then too, but she hadn’t been alone.

As the door swung open, she inhaled the frigid air doused with car exhaust.  Pulling her coat tighter around her chest, she smiled at the streetlights reflection on the wet stone beneath her feet.  Her veins were now covered with scarlet wool socks and her favorite Nikes, but the stone was still exposed and cold.  A delicate reddish curl blew into her eyes, reminding her of the walk.  She locked the door and glanced at the dark windows, unintentionally and unconsciously saying goodbye.

There were few cars on the roads that night.  She wondered where each of the few were going.  They were probably on their way to a warm home and a happy family.  As she waited to cross the avenue, she studied a man waiting at the light.  She watched him for a minute or two before he noticed her and smiled.  Her eyes retreated in an act of self consciousness and she paced her steps across the road.  She passed Sal’s Pizzeria, its neon sign now cold and gray. They closed at 10.  She and the voice on the answering machine had often eaten at Sal’s; she loved the crispy texture of their crust.  Looking in the now darkened windows, she reminisced.  She saw him at their table, third one from the left, tying his straw wrapper in a knot while she smiled in adoration at his childishness.  He really was beautiful.  His love and dedication to her permeated his every movement.  She was his and he was hers—forever.  A siren blared in the distance, its eerie sound made sharper in the bitter air.  The dining area was made dark once again as she turned to continue on.

For blocks she walked, her feet knowing a familiar path.  She craved another cigarette, but remembered her only pack was on the side table.  Nothing was open, so she attempted to ignore the craving like she had for several months in the past.  An attempt in vain, she thought.  She dug her cold and seemingly fragile hands into her pockets, now walking faster.  She hoped she had blown out the candle before leaving, as it isn’t good to let them burn unattended, especially in a restored Victorian rental unit.

The streetlight a block ahead flickered like the wink of an old sailor.  Her father had been a sailor.  He died many years ago, when she was only 19.  For this reason, she winked back.  Finally she came to her destination, though she was unsure if she had truly meant to end here.  The nine steps that led to the door were different than hers.  These were brick, not stone, and they didn’t possess the same glowing damp appeal.  They were nine simple steps, nine steps that anyone could conquer—anyone but her.  As she climbed their solid harshness, she counted.  “One…two…three…four...”  The task was easier than it had initially seemed.  “Five…six…seven…eight…”

It happened.  What she feared, why she hadn’t come back for what seemed like forever.  She dropped to her knees as she ascended the ninth step.  Through her jeans she felt the coldness she had felt in her spine two months prior.  It had been an emergency then, just as it was now.  Her face in her hands, she wept at the foot of the dark wooden door before her, in an attempt of forgiveness and hatred of herself.  She had no control over her tears or her cries of frustration.  The door opened and she was encircled in warmth.  The faint scent on her coat was now not so faint, not a memory.

“Darling, darling, darling,” he whispered in her ear as he picked her trembling body off of the stoop.  “You’re here now, you’ve come back.  Don’t let it torture you so.”

Her crystal eyes swept across his face, the lines which comprised it being chiseled and hard.  A somber melody played in the background, one they had picked out together.  The face she saw in the kitchen earlier that night was back; the body and the tiny hands.  Now she saw the doll sized coffin, cream colored like the skin of what lay inside, and the gerber daisies.  She thought such flowers to be appropriate.  She saw his tears and heard the haunting sobs that echoed in her ears.  She hadn’t cried then, she was too heavily medicated, but she cried now; she cried into his shoulder and he held her.

“I don’t know how it happened…I don’t know, I don’t…I tripped on the last step…the ninth step…I don’t know…”