Released by Richard Thomas

— Intro —

I lie on the soft floor, arms numb, darkness wrapping around me like a tight jacket. There are footsteps outside the door, a glimmer of faded yellow light seeping through the tiny windowpane, and it is hard to breathe. A flash of light, voices, and they are picking me up, helping me to stand up tall. Today I am a woman, I am myself, but I don’t know what tomorrow brings. They tell me to be brave, that I can do it.

— Sunday —

I scratch the stubble of my worn face. Forty-three years and I have nothing to show for it. Delta’s been gone for six now, and the boys, well they never visit any more. Tommy is too busy in Little Rock going to AU and John is exhausted working at Chrysler and having his own kids. God knows I can’t drive anymore. After the brush fire, my vision never was the same. Can’t hardly focus at all. Farming isn’t what it used to be. Nobody wants to do an honest day’s work.

The old, red barn sits quiet but for the tinkling of ice covered branches across the yard.  Wrapping my flannel arms tight around my emaciated frame, plumes of breath fog the air. No matter how many layers of long underwear and denim I wear, the cold penetrates to the bone. No matter the shirts and wool sweater, I am cold. And out of habit I still smoke on the porch, rain or shine, snow or heat. Delta still holds a firm grip on my habits, even from the grave.

No point in quitting now. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, I say. Might as well finish it off right. Hell, might as well start drinking again too. There’s still that bottle of scotch up above the fridge, good stuff, twenty-years old. Delta never did find it. Or notice my occasional nip at it. Nothing but medium-rare porterhouse steaks and loaded baked potatoes from here on out. And vanilla ice cream, with real vanilla. And chocolate sauce.

The porch door opens and out wafts the scent of smoky, thick-cut hickory bacon, buttery biscuits with sausage gravy, and French Roast coffee begging for cream and sugar.

“Hey honey, come on in here, your breakfast is getting cold.”

— Monday —

I run my hands through my long blond hair. The big question is whether or not that thing is a deathtrap or a future playground. Well, I guess that’s the least of my worries. There are lots of plans to make and stuff to buy. Painting and redecorating, books and toys. There’ll be so much room to run around and play. Maybe I’ll start gardening again, put some tomatoes and cucumbers in the ground. Some carrots and peas, make my own baby food. We could always get some chickens, maybe a pig or two. No cows though, I can’t handle that. But horses maybe. If it’s a girl.

I wrap the robe around the tiny bulge of a stomach and cinch it closed, stuffing my hands in the pockets for warmth.

The henna frame stands valiant in the nippy air, proud shoulders hoisting up beams and siding. An air of confidence and history holds court over the hay and rusty farm tools. It is nothing but a home for brittle spiders, gray squirrels and lost field mice now. A blanket of white bundles it up.

Guess I’m done smoking now. And no more wine either. Have to start eating healthy, lots of vegetables, and protein. I’ll have to pull that list out again. I forget what all I can and can’t do.

The porch door opens and out eases the sweet smell of blueberry pancakes, the sizzle of pan-fried sausages and a hint of mocha latte with the whipped cream on top I like so much.

“Hey honey, come on in here, your breakfast is getting cold.”

— Tuesday —

I adjust the bra strap that is biting into my shoulder, these creaky old bones. Praise the Lord. I thank you Jesus every day of my life for the bounty you have given me and the opportunity you have given me to do your work. I am your humble servant and I am here accepting your calling, answering your word and shouting out your name. Though I have remained barren, I seek your love. Though I have struggled, I bathe in your glory. For I know that someday I will be a witness to your kingdom, and I will come inside and be saved from this mortal coil, this earthly imperfection.

I stand without a shiver in my bones, face flush and eyes wide. Blue jeans, a pink turtleneck and fuzzy bunny slippers are all that separate me from the elements.

The crimson sanctuary reflects the morning sun off its icy countenance. Every juncture of beam a crossroads. Every rotting slat and sagging doorway is but a respite from the bitter storm. Made by man, it is a collapsing pile of ruddy wood and nails. Blessed by God it is a temple filled with light and opportunity.

Where I once was blind, I now can see. Whether your house will hold heathens filled with addiction or wayward lambs seeking guidance, I care not. I will be doing the Lord’s work now. How can I fail?

The porch door opens and out floats the aroma of onions, peppers, and maple-cured ham. The omelet is ready, and the coffee sits steaming in a plain white porcelain cup next to it.

“Hey honey, come on in here, your breakfast is getting cold.”

— Wednesday —

I hitch my jeans up, adjusting my balls, the denim always biting into me. I just don’t care any more. They can all go screw themselves. You just keep putting yourself out there, and nobody cares. Every nice girl I meet, well she just wants some jerk on a motorcycle that will toss her aside like a used Kleenex in a week. And then she’ll have a story to tell about the hot guy in the leather jacket. And no matter how good I do at work, well mom, it just isn’t good enough for you is it? It’s always ‘get a haircut,’ or ‘what’s with the clothes, are you gay?’ and ‘do you need that beer?’ And you, Dad, you cold-hearted Texas wannabe cowboy. You can’t be bothered unless we’re working on the car or moving some lumber. I’ll never get out of here, I have nowhere to go, and I’m too stupid to make any plans. I’m not working on the Chrysler assembly line or at the Tyson poultry plant. I’m not going to do it.

The stale burgundy a-frame opens its maw and like an abandoned refrigerator offers a myriad of possibilities. Deep in its bowels sits a scythe and shears and giant cans of gasoline and old motor oil. An insulated cavern to the bitter cold around it, a prison in which the final sentence can be carried out.

You and me sister. We’ve got a date. We’ll take his best bottle of bourbon and her stupid figurines and have one Hummel of a good time. This is on my terms, but they sure as hell can clean up the mess.

The porch door opens and brown sugar and butter mingle with apple raisin oatmeal. Freshly squeezed orange juice waits in a tall jelly jar.

“Hey honey, come on in here, your breakfast is getting cold.”

— Thursday —

I dig the plain white cotton panties out of my butt and take a deep breath. Ohmygod, ohmygod, I can finally get out of here. I can get that new car, that cute pink VW Bug convertible with the little holder for the daisy. And talk about a new wardrobe. No more hand-me-downs, no more Salvation Army, no more searching through the 50% off racks and praying for something in a size 7. But I can’t tell anyone. If they find out, they’ll take it from me, and somehow I’ll get nothing. I’ve got to go tonight. I’ll pack a bag after dinner, and run it out to Old Bessie and hide in her hay loft. Nobody goes out there anymore. I can walk or hitch. The bus station is only a couple of miles away, and I can either take that all the way to Little Rock or head over to the Amtrak. I’ve never flown before, but I could always do that too. Up in the air with a drink in my hand, flying over the fields, the city approaching. Oh wait. When do I get my check?

The chestnut asylum doesn’t say a word, shuddered under the weight of the morning’s snowstorm. All manners of crazy hide amongst its neglected corners. Old science fair projects that didn’t win. Rusted bicycle frames that never went far. Frayed tire swings that broke under the strain. Dusty hay long dried of blood and tears and shame. Beer bottles turned into empty shards of brown and green, filling the black trash bags.

I can get as far as Little Rock. I have that much. I have to figure out how to cash it, how to claim it without the vultures swooping in. I’m 18 now, I can do it. He’ll never see me…What?

I turn my head to the kitchen, but only the frigid air answers me back. I stuff the ticket back in my ragged down coat, the color of faded bruises, duct taped at the elbows. Beaten Levi’s patched at the knees and Keds with busted laces barely keep in the warmth. I stare at the back yard, and map out my path.

The porch door opens and a stack of waffles calls my name. Strawberries and syrup join the chorus. Coffee too, ‘cause I’m 18 now, with four sugars and heavy cream.

“Hey honey, come on in here, your breakfast is getting cold.”

“OK, Mom.”

I shuffle inside and the kitchen embraces me. The light is blinding, every little sound and noise clanging in my ears, every aroma both nauseating and enticing. The harshness of every corner and edge sends goose bumps up my arms.

“Did you take your pills yet Madison?” she asks.

“No, Mom.”

“Take ‘em wouldja honey? That’s part of your doctor’s release you know.”

“Sure, Mom.” I push a loose strand of hair out of my face.

“You know, you’ve been staring at that old red barn all week. What is going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing, Mama. Nothing.”

“No more voices, all quiet?”

“Yes, Mama. No more voices.”

In my head there is laughter, so I close my eyes to the world.


 
 
 
Richard’s debut novel, a neo-noir thriller entitled Transubstantiate will be out with Otherworld Publications on 6.18.10. Visit www.transubstantiate.net for more information. He was the winner of the ChiZine Publications 2009 “Enter the World of Filaria” contest. His short story “Maker of Flight” was chosen by Filaria author Brent Hayward and Bram Stoker Award-Winning editor Brett Alexander Savory. His work is published or forthcoming in Shivers VI (from Cemetery Dance), 3:AM Magazine, Word Riot, Dogmatika, Gold Dust, Cherry Bleeds, Vain and Opium. Richard is a member of the Horror Writers Association.

Tags: fiction, prose