Tuesday, May 12, 2009
"The Letter" Continued...
Jack closes up the antique shop a whole two hours after his mother leaves early with a headache.
On her way home, Sherry is talking on the Blackberry while driving even though her husband Tom made her swear never to do it. She lies.
"No I'm parked right now. Yeah, It's this buzzing electric feeling at the back of my neck, like bees or something, and then coldness, like there are ice cubes there suddenly. It happens over and over again...Just today after I had that third cup of coffee. No, just the usual stuff. Yes, I took Advil. I don't know, I hope it's not arthritis in my shoulders. Okay, love you,
The Advil doesn't work. By the time she goes to bed, Sherry is so irritated. She takes two Motrin and closes her eyes. Finally, she relaxes.
It's the sensation of being shoved forcefully by frail white-gloved hands, breath on the back of her neck, the smell of brandy. For a moment, like a spectator in her own nightmare, Sherry watches herself being pushed out of the house and down the street by an old woman with the strength of an ox. She stumbles barefoot at the fast-forward speed that only takes place in panic dreams. The hands are like ice on the back of her shoulders. She reaches the door of her shop.
"Open it!" Sherry shivers as the breath of this creature numbs her left ear.
She fumbles with the key, still feeling the shock of cold hands on her shoulders. The door swings open and she feels her body propelled forward to the front desk. The garbage pail flips over spilling its contents. An empty 7-11 coffee cup rolls under her desk chair. The bag was changed.
Sherry feels herself lifted, icy hands cutting off her windpipe, she gasps for air.
"Jack changed the bag." She struggles to say, coughing, and frozen in horror. Her head hits the old tin ceiling. "Please." She cries.
No letter means no rest from this thing. The creature lets go. Sherry falls to the floor of her shop, hitting her head on her desk.
"Sherry? Are you okay?!" Tom shouts. Sherry looks up, tears flooding her eyes. The bedroom is dark, but birds are beginning to chirp outside.
"Sherry, Sweetheart, You were having a bad dream." Tom reaches over to pull her up, half-asleep himself.
"No, I made a mistake yesterday. I threw something out that I shouldn't have." Sherry opens her dresser drawer and pulls out a pair of slacks.
"What are you doing? It's three in the morning?" Tom whines.
"I have to go to work and get the garbage back before it gets picked up."
Before Tom can protest, Sherry has left the room.
Dear Internet Traveler,
Welcome to my writer's blog, started about six years ago for fun. Over time, the writing I have posted has ranged from personal reflection, to Long Island history research, to tall tales for my own amusement, to feature articles for local newspapers. As you can see from topics listed here, I travel in many mental directions in regard to interests. Click on the tabs and labels to explore my strange mind which senses that you may be having a criss-cross day. If so, perhaps this blog will distract you. However, please note that if you tell me my blog is beautiful just to get me to advertise rhinoplasty surgery and cheap drugs from Canada in your comment, I will ask the gods to give you a tail that cannot be concealed.