It’s funny how life has a way of ruining everyone’s expectations. She wonders why people have them to begin with. Her Aunt Cassie once said that she wouldn’t amount to anything more than an accountant. Her mother told her that she needed a big strong man by her side to survive
They’d be proud of her now, wouldn’t they?
A fist connects with her jaw.
She feels something hard rattling around her mouth, and a fresh surge of warmth gushing into it. It’s a good thing that these brutes tied her up. Else, she’d probably claw their eyes out with the fingernails she has left.
Why did she take this job anyway? Oh yeah, she was chasing after the glory. Why focus on that preening peacock, shrouded by her admirers? See the quiet girl at the back of the class? She’s gonna be a real hero!
A hand slams the back of her head, flipping her face-first to the floor. The smell of iron fills her nostrils. Wet warmth soon surrounds her nose, soaking the ground her forehead is resting on. The weight of the chair presses uncomfortably against her back and shoulders. She’d like to shift some of it onto her still-bound hands, but she’s too tired to try.
Maybe Frank would give her a massage when she gets home.
Frank. Sweet, gentle, reliable Frank. No one thought he’d end up with her.
“Frank is too soft. He needs someone smart and assertive.” She can still see the disapproving shakes of their heads. Faceless, because she doesn’t have a very good memory, but deprecating all the same. “Not Alice.”
Two kids, a car and a house stopped their tongues from waggling.
The chair turns on its side, stringing her along with it, like a rag-doll. “Done with me, bastards?” The sound that escapes her throat isn’t the chuckle she intended, but it’ll do.
Her reward is a crushing blow to her arm.
“Alice, you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not.”
Frank’s the only person to call her out on it.
Pretense is one of the few things she’s good at. And she’s used it quite often too. Like the times she put on a dazzling smile while being sidelined for her introversion. Or how she pretends to recall everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries year after year, even though they ought to know by now that she can’t memorize a simple grocery list.
And the way she acts like she’s learnt how to be a good mother when in reality, it’s just as confusing to her as it was half a decade ago.
A particularly hard kick to her stomach makes her wheeze. Her eyes fly wide open at the impact, and she cringes at the sickening crack of a rib. She spots a speck of white, amidst a growing pool of crimson. So that’s what it was.
Another molar.
The room falls silent for a bit. She’s pleased by it. The only noise she’s remotely been able to tolerate is that of Matt and Joan.
Someone sets the chair upright.
“Tired already?” She rasps, her voice horribly similar to that of a ninety-year-old woman. A rough hand grabs her face, wrenching it from side to side. She stares up and sees him. Despite all the grainy photographs she’s seen and reports she’s pored over, she’s so terrified she forgets to breathe.
His hand releases her.
She inhales deeply. “Given up, Scarface?”
She hears the familiar swish of metal in the air.
Guess not.
Better her than them.
She remembers taking her kids to Aunt Krista’s house. Matt’s radiant smile as they sprinted towards the bus stop, because they were finally going somewhere other than school. And little Joan tugging on her long brown hair in a cute attempt to make her stay back with them.
For reasons beyond her, she recalls her words to them before she left.
“Don’t open the door for anyone.”
Her mind’s a blank slate if that’s all she can think of. Maybe it’s because all those years whizzed by in a blur.
“Don’t talk to strangers.”
Or perhaps, she didn’t spend enough time with them. What’s their favourite food again?
She should know that, at least.
“Don’t leave the house on your own.”
It’s a pity she doesn’t follow her own advice.
As the knife presses into her arms, she imagines herself being carved like the turkey they had last Thanksgiving.
The ropes fall away.
Her hair’s nearly ripped from her scalp, as she’s yanked up by it. She stands, leaning on her left side as though she prefers it. Her hand clutches the front of her shirt, fingers brushing against the crust of blood on the hardened fabric.
Sad. This was her lucky one.
She looks directly at Scarface. It’s a name she made up since she couldn’t care less about what he’s called.
He mouths words, ones she can’t hear.
She glares nonetheless, conveying every bit of defiance she can muster. Not much, considering she wants to spew out her insides. Her knees are numb, and she’s got a splitting headache. A nice long nap would do the trick.
That massage would have to wait.
Gathering the remnants of her strength, she wonders what it’s like to actually be brave.
She spits in his face, leaving a red trail. Satisfied to watch the controlled calm break into unrestrained fury, she awaits the inevitable. The slashes of his blade across her skin make her scream, but her eyes shine with remembrance.
Fettuccine Alfredo. With shrimp.
She smiles as darkness enters her world.
Art in Words 