Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Rage (violent, uncontrolled hatred and anger) (02/05/15)
- TITLE: Hazard Warning - Mummy's Bicycle!
By Danielle King
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I suck in a long, deep, breath, expanding my lungs and plumping my belly. That’s the way God designed me to breathe, says the man with the mesmeric, velvet voice. I exhale, slowly, as instructed.
I will not, NOT be consumed by this thing.
I loosen up and think of early morning beach mooches; pebbles crunching beneath my plimsolls; seagulls squawking, swooping upon a small fishing coble as it lands its catch. I lick the tang of salt from my lips. And remember…
Childhood; security, naivety.
The garage door slams. He’s whistling his stupid tune. He can’t even get that right.
I wait, tentatively; breathe… slowly, mindfully. I’m in the moment, and I’m calm.
He snatches at the door handle.
Mindless heartbeat pumps unwelcome adrenaline. Why does he grab at stuff? Clang, like a gong? It hurts my ears.
He lets the door slam behind him; my brain rattles. “I’m home,” he hollers.
Here it comes… from the tips of my toes, gaining momentum as it courses relentlessly through my entire sensory network, to surge, mercilessly, swamping my delicate tolerance threshold.
I lose the battle. Outrageous accusations spill from my lips. “Where have you been?” I growl.
“Same place you sent me?” He sticks his head inside the larder and chooses an apple.
“David, do not lie to me.” Apple juice sprays his chin as he bites the rosy side.
“Dropped the kids off at Gran’s. Told her I’d collect Sunday. OK?” He’s guilty. Can’t look me in the eye…
“David. Can you please NOT CRUNCH SO LOUDLY!”
“It’s an apple Kate. Deal with it.”
“Who is she, David?”
I’ve blown it. My cheeks burn white hot; my head fit to detonate. Why does he not react? How can he play so cool? He is one consummate liar!
And now he’s turned tail, and nonchalantly walks out the door without a backward glance.
His parting shot, “Going fishing!” Hackneyed! Bugging! Bore!
He has no conscience. See you when you’re over yourself, he says, leaving me alone, to smoulder and fester.
He is adept at turning things around, making me believe that I’m the unreasonable one.
My mouth is dry. Panic rises from the tips of my toes as I embrace thoughts of harm. I reach for the disk, my refuge; the man who croons gently in my ear, calms me with subtle persuasion; affirmation.
My mind drifts… wrong direction. I visualise a carving knife; gleaming, freshly sharpened. I run my fingers along the bloodied blade.
I am vindicated. And it feels good.
I rinse the blade clean before leisurely slotting it back into the knife block.
I turn to witness the result of my vengeful, rancorous act and balk at what I am capable of. The full horror of the malevolence that lurks in my heart repulses me.
I cannot shake the hideous image. I screw my eyes tightly shut, yet it stalks relentlessly behind closed lids.
No impassioned pleas to God. I deserve to suffer. I am pure evil.
Daybreak is dawning… yet I don’t recall sleeping. My stomach is cramping in painful spasm. I roll off the couch to visit the bathroom, take a shower, get my head together. The kids are home tonight.
I ponder over Dave’s whereabouts. Somehow the heat has died down. I recoil afresh at last night’s heinous scenario. I’m almost afraid of myself. Maybe Dave’s right, I need professional help.
I leave the bathroom in a state of flux. I am released, lightened and desperately in love with my husband. I pick up the phone, “Hi Dave.”
“Is it safe to come home?” He asks…
It’s 6pm now. Here they come; bang, crash, wallop; Jody first, headlong as always.
“Mummy, are you feeling better now? Daddy told Nan you’d gone la la, and Nan says you’re ruled by the moon.”
I chuckle at the analogy. “Jody, you know the biggest, brightest moon we see through the window sometimes?” She nods.
“Daddy says it comes every month on a bicycle, mummy.”
“Silly daddy, he means cycle, a monthly cycle.” Two contemplative blue eyes scrutinise mine, tussling to untangle my meaning.
“Mummies have cycles too…
And, when you grow into a big girl, mummy will tell you all about it.”
“But I want to know now, mummy.”
“Trust me, you do not,” calls the man I slaughtered last night.
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