She stares out the open window, watching the light rain collect in puddles on the sill. A single silent tear rolls down her flushed cheek. Alone she sits in a tawdry, tattered dress. She remembers the ire in his words; the pain they caused her. She remembers locking the door and flinging herself down onto the bed, thrashing wildly and whimpering. She finally fell asleep in the dimly lit room. And now here she sits, and all she can do is remember. She knows confrontation is unavoidable, yet she can’t bring herself to move even an inch. She was perplexed at this discovery. She tried to life her finger, but she could not. She panicked and tried again, but still found the same result. Why couldn’t she move? Why was she still so upset? She didn’t need him. She should be over it now, shouldn’t she? The questions haunted her as she drifted away into a deep sleep, her head coming to a rest on the head of the chair. The rain pattered against the window, singing a lullaby to her. A new tear, much larger than the first, ran down her cheek and onto her neck, then down to her arm, and to her hand still resting on the sill. It gently climbed off the edge of her finger and joined the rain in the tiny puddles. A small breeze ran into the room through the opening in the window, pushing the puddles closer to her. But, alas, she was away in her dreamland and was not aware of the shape the water had begun to take.
Every Scar Has A Story
April 7, 2009