Hello my lovely and darling Otherbeasts! I have some creative writing to share with you. Aren't you glad there's one day left for relaxing this weekend? I know I'm glad.
After everything we've seen, heard, and been through, now I have to watch him drive away in that old beat up pickup truck he loves so much, not even knowing if he'll make it back alive. I keep gazing out the window, long after his truck has turned as disappeared from sight, wrapped up in thought. The barricades are outside the city, on the main highways, and so there's not much danger there but the civilian militia groups that rove the streets, like rabid dogs looking for a meal, might just decide that he's to their liking and a perfect candidate for Patriotic Rehabilitation.
I look down at the porcelain white kitchen sink cluttered with dishes and notice that my knuckles have turned white from gripping the edge of the counter. I turn away from the window and lean back against the kitchen sink placing my hand against my forehead. I sigh out of worry and frustration because my hand is warm and my palm clammy, not the kind of relief I need right now. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly trying to block out the gruesome images I've only seen on the news recently about women, children, an elderly 80 something year old gentleman; random casualties that never posed any threat but that the Civilian Militia decided were “appropriate candidates” for “Patriotic Rehabilitation.” They don't discriminate.
I find myself cupping my hands over my face and with my fingertips rubbing my eyes as if to dissipate the images behind my eyelids. He needs to do this or he'll never forgive himself, he cares - maybe too much - about others. My hands drop and I force myself to open my eyes. I look around the kitchen, the large white slabs of tile with their grout cluttered by dirt and dog hair should be cooling to my bare feet but it does very little to take my mind off of things. I should really take this all in, I think, it may be the last time I'm actually in a liveable house.
The kitchen is by no means glamorous but it isn't tiny either. From where I'm standing it's in the shape of a squared-off horseshoe with the kitchen sick counter I'm leaning against completing the bottom of the U. The cabinets were painted some time ago with a pale shade of yellow, perhaps to brighten the area, but later covered over in a heavy coat of white paint that is now peeling in various places and showing it's pallid skin; they almost look white-washed if I squint really hard. The counters are laminated wood grain and cluttered with pots, pans, and glasses that the kitchen sink can't hold. On the right counter the electric stove is dappled with brown and black spots that have been baked on from years of pots boiling over and neglected spills. Above the stove sits an ivory microwave that's been bolstered to the wall, blending into the cabinets surrounding it; past the stove are more cabinets with their peeling skin. The kitchen feels smaller than it is because on the right side is the towering presence of a large, industrial, white refrigerator humming away noisily; it's cluttered with magnets clinging to old photographs and a child's numerous drawings; the textured plastic handles are stained a light brown from the many unwashed hands opening the doors in seek of something refreshing. Just past the droning white monster is a slight space, that allows clearance for the door to the pantry. The right side of the pantry juts out, narrowing the entry way to the kitchen by making a new wall. Resting against this wall is a gently beat up hutch the color of sunflowers, displaying white plates with two-toned tractors on them, the symbol of an idealized dream of a farmer's simple life. The plates are tucked behind the glass of the hutch and are free of dust as if to preserve the dream for some future use. There's a recess in the wall where the pantry ends and just beyond the hutch, a small alcove built for a wet bar or maybe a writing desk. The wall reaches back out again to meet at a ninety degree angle with a waist high, half-wall, room divider with a banister that reaches into the ceiling. The divider stops about six feet across the room, parallel to the counter I'm half gripping, half leaning against. This break in the divider allows for a large entryway into to the living room lined with linoleum that resembles hardwood flooring before it picks back up again another six feet away from the adjacent wall. The room divider is the same on this side with its waist-high level and matching banister that extends into the ceiling. With the exception of the opening to the living room, the room dividing wall and its waist to ceiling banister look and feel like ornate wooden bars to a posh holding cell. The right side of the diving wall meets up at perpendicular angle with the wall that makes up the back wall of the living room and the rest of the kitchen area, enclosing the breakfast nook neatly. The kitchen table is there, against the back wall, and directly across the room from the mustard colored hutch. Two curtained windows by the table peer into the backyard and allow sunlight in; of course the table and chairs serve no purpose now because they have been piled high with old magazines, circulars, and sewing patterns. The nook stops there and another wall comes forward to meet the corner of the right side of the kitchen. Behind the kitchen wall and the nook wall there's a separate little room for the washer and dryer and a door leading out onto the backyard patio.
He should be back by now, shouldn't he? I ask myself because panic is starting to slowly set in. I stare back down at my bare feet on the tile trying to calm the wracking nerves and worry coursing through my body and sigh again mostly out of frustration and because I hear shuffling, slow footsteps entering the kitchen. Footsteps that can only belong to one person, the person that owns this house.
Click Here to Read Chapter Two
Click Here to Read Chapter Two
Until Next Time,