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tamingthemuse2007-04-27 04:39 am
dedra.livejournal.com) wrote in tamingthemuse2007-04-27 04:39 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Title: Peg
Fandom: None--OFC/OMC
Rating: PG for disturbing scenes and language
Warnings: Herein lies some very disturbing language of a racial, prejudicial nature. Beware if you are offended by racial slurs.
Author's note: While cleaning out files on my old (very old) computer, I found this story idea about a woman--the idea fit the prompt perfectly and voila! Here it is.
Peg stood at the kitchen sink, motionless. Eyes sightless, she stared past the faded yellow walls of the kitchen, the dingy gray of the fourth-hand refrigerator, the white curtains now yellow with age and time. The only brightness in the room was the reflection of the light on the soap bubbles in the sink, splintering into iridescent rainbows. Mechanically, she swiped at the pot in her hand with the dishrag as Mike’s voice droned on in a monotonous monologue behind her.
“Yes, and I told me boys that the other day…if it twern’t for the niggers and wops in this town, we would’na hae not a crime. You can’t pass a street corner anymore that some nigger hasn’a staked with a whore for the taking for the right price. I tell ye, Peg, the whole neighborhood is goin’ ta shit, for sure.” He paused, and filled his mouth with oats and toast. “Why, th’other day, I saw that the Farradays rented out their apartment to a bunch of spics. Just what we need in this neighborhood…more spics to cause trouble.”
Peg mumbled an automatic appropriate comment. It was second nature to her now. She rinsed the spotless pot in the sink, and set it on the drainboard next to her.
“Peg, me cup’s empty, woman. Where’s me coffee?”
Lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t notice the question. She stood still, staring, mindlessly cleaning the next dish at hand. It was only when she heard his booming voice raise into a shout that she realized that on this one morning, this special morning, something was different.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, woman, do ye not hear me voice? I said, where’s me fuckin’ coffee….” His voice came to a halt, and a gagging noise followed.
She turned and stared at the man at the table. His wide, florid face was growing darker with each passing second. Pudgy hands were pressed to his chest and his words were lost in the musical wheezing that whistled out of his mouth. His fat stomach spilled over the top of his gunbelt like a waterfall, his chest like a woman’s with breasts as big as her own in his white tee shirt that he wore under his uniform. The layers of fat shook wildly with his efforts to breathe, to curse her once again.
“Fer Chrissakes Peg, I’m havin’ a heart attack here! Pick up the goddamn phone and call me an ambulance. Woman, are ye daft? Have you lost all of your senses?”
She picked up the coffeepot on the table, the weight of the ancient percolator heavy and almost comforting in her hand. Silently she poured the coffee into the stained yellow plastic coffee cup and listened to Mike gasping for air. Daring to peek from under her lashes, she saw that his face was shiny purple-black now, his tongue protruding from his mouth, the whites of his eyes the only visible part. Her mind shouted at her to pick up the phone. Her body, her soul revolted and she was hypnotized by the sight of his face, his tongue, his eyes, his stomach.
She set the coffeepot down on the table, only milliseconds before his head hit the tabletop. Turning, she took off her apron, hung it neatly on the hook next to the gold-colored stove and left the room.
Her mind drifted away from the choking noises coming from the dining room to a small cubicle in a smaller apartment, years ago. It was their first apartment together right after their rushed wedding—it was only two weeks after she had discovered exactly where babies came from and she would be having one of her own in a few short months.
She hadn’t felt good all day; perhaps it was the mutton, slightly soured from the heat since they couldn’t afford ice for the box. They could afford whiskey for his gut, though. She was laying on the davenport with a cloth over her eyes and one hand resting protectively on her stomach when he came reeling in the door, reeking of whiskey and smoke.
“Woman, where the hell is my supper?” he bellowed. Instead of leaping to his beck and call as usual, she waved her hand languidly in the hot, still air.
“Mike, I’m not well. Fix a sandwich.”
The first fist caught her arm and bruised it instantly. With her free hand, she raked the cloth off her forehead and stared up into the face of the madman above her. The second fist barreled into her jaw with a sharp crack that she knew had to be a broken bone, followed by a fast third hit to the stomach that she was protecting with both arms at that moment.
“You are my wife and you will have supper on the table when I come home! Do you hear me?”
Obediently she stood, dragging her stunned person into the kitchen to cook his meal. Two aspirin took care of the ache in her jaw and the bruises on her arms but did nothing for the throb in her stomach that radiated from the inside out.
After he had partaken of his rights as a husband, she limped into the shared bathroom on the sixth floor of their walkup and stared into the mirror at the discoloration marking her face. A warm trickle distracted her and she looked down to find blood pooling in a puddle of black in the dim light at her feet.
She never spoke of the baby she lost or the reason why she lost it. Instead, she busied herself with the life of a cop’s wife, helping where she was needed and keeping to herself when she wasn’t. She kept a tidy house and took in laundry to keep them in hearth and home when the gambling and drink was too great to remain unnoticed. She sat silently when they ate and quietly when they weren’t, reading her Bible and concentrating on one verse, repeating it in her head when he wasn’t around.
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
The noises from the kitchen finally stopped and she looked in to find him face down in the oatmeal and still as the baby she had born alone in a dirty bathroom.
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” She dug in his pants pocket for his wallet and found it full of cash. With a dull look on her face, she emptied the wallet and placed it back in his pocket, then put the money in her purse hanging on the hook by the back door.
With a sudden smile that she couldn’t hide, she picked up the phone and called the ambulance. Her act perfected by twenty years of practice, she sounded sad as she informed the operator of her husband’s sudden heart attack.
That task complete, she sat down on the davenport with her Bible in her hand and opened it to a well-worn page. Green bills spilled out over her hands, more than enough to start a new life somewhere else with the memories of twenty years of pain and falsehood behind her. Looking down at the words that had kept her alive, she whispered them once again.
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
Fandom: None--OFC/OMC
Rating: PG for disturbing scenes and language
Warnings: Herein lies some very disturbing language of a racial, prejudicial nature. Beware if you are offended by racial slurs.
Author's note: While cleaning out files on my old (very old) computer, I found this story idea about a woman--the idea fit the prompt perfectly and voila! Here it is.
Peg stood at the kitchen sink, motionless. Eyes sightless, she stared past the faded yellow walls of the kitchen, the dingy gray of the fourth-hand refrigerator, the white curtains now yellow with age and time. The only brightness in the room was the reflection of the light on the soap bubbles in the sink, splintering into iridescent rainbows. Mechanically, she swiped at the pot in her hand with the dishrag as Mike’s voice droned on in a monotonous monologue behind her.
“Yes, and I told me boys that the other day…if it twern’t for the niggers and wops in this town, we would’na hae not a crime. You can’t pass a street corner anymore that some nigger hasn’a staked with a whore for the taking for the right price. I tell ye, Peg, the whole neighborhood is goin’ ta shit, for sure.” He paused, and filled his mouth with oats and toast. “Why, th’other day, I saw that the Farradays rented out their apartment to a bunch of spics. Just what we need in this neighborhood…more spics to cause trouble.”
Peg mumbled an automatic appropriate comment. It was second nature to her now. She rinsed the spotless pot in the sink, and set it on the drainboard next to her.
“Peg, me cup’s empty, woman. Where’s me coffee?”
Lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t notice the question. She stood still, staring, mindlessly cleaning the next dish at hand. It was only when she heard his booming voice raise into a shout that she realized that on this one morning, this special morning, something was different.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, woman, do ye not hear me voice? I said, where’s me fuckin’ coffee….” His voice came to a halt, and a gagging noise followed.
She turned and stared at the man at the table. His wide, florid face was growing darker with each passing second. Pudgy hands were pressed to his chest and his words were lost in the musical wheezing that whistled out of his mouth. His fat stomach spilled over the top of his gunbelt like a waterfall, his chest like a woman’s with breasts as big as her own in his white tee shirt that he wore under his uniform. The layers of fat shook wildly with his efforts to breathe, to curse her once again.
“Fer Chrissakes Peg, I’m havin’ a heart attack here! Pick up the goddamn phone and call me an ambulance. Woman, are ye daft? Have you lost all of your senses?”
She picked up the coffeepot on the table, the weight of the ancient percolator heavy and almost comforting in her hand. Silently she poured the coffee into the stained yellow plastic coffee cup and listened to Mike gasping for air. Daring to peek from under her lashes, she saw that his face was shiny purple-black now, his tongue protruding from his mouth, the whites of his eyes the only visible part. Her mind shouted at her to pick up the phone. Her body, her soul revolted and she was hypnotized by the sight of his face, his tongue, his eyes, his stomach.
She set the coffeepot down on the table, only milliseconds before his head hit the tabletop. Turning, she took off her apron, hung it neatly on the hook next to the gold-colored stove and left the room.
Her mind drifted away from the choking noises coming from the dining room to a small cubicle in a smaller apartment, years ago. It was their first apartment together right after their rushed wedding—it was only two weeks after she had discovered exactly where babies came from and she would be having one of her own in a few short months.
She hadn’t felt good all day; perhaps it was the mutton, slightly soured from the heat since they couldn’t afford ice for the box. They could afford whiskey for his gut, though. She was laying on the davenport with a cloth over her eyes and one hand resting protectively on her stomach when he came reeling in the door, reeking of whiskey and smoke.
“Woman, where the hell is my supper?” he bellowed. Instead of leaping to his beck and call as usual, she waved her hand languidly in the hot, still air.
“Mike, I’m not well. Fix a sandwich.”
The first fist caught her arm and bruised it instantly. With her free hand, she raked the cloth off her forehead and stared up into the face of the madman above her. The second fist barreled into her jaw with a sharp crack that she knew had to be a broken bone, followed by a fast third hit to the stomach that she was protecting with both arms at that moment.
“You are my wife and you will have supper on the table when I come home! Do you hear me?”
Obediently she stood, dragging her stunned person into the kitchen to cook his meal. Two aspirin took care of the ache in her jaw and the bruises on her arms but did nothing for the throb in her stomach that radiated from the inside out.
After he had partaken of his rights as a husband, she limped into the shared bathroom on the sixth floor of their walkup and stared into the mirror at the discoloration marking her face. A warm trickle distracted her and she looked down to find blood pooling in a puddle of black in the dim light at her feet.
She never spoke of the baby she lost or the reason why she lost it. Instead, she busied herself with the life of a cop’s wife, helping where she was needed and keeping to herself when she wasn’t. She kept a tidy house and took in laundry to keep them in hearth and home when the gambling and drink was too great to remain unnoticed. She sat silently when they ate and quietly when they weren’t, reading her Bible and concentrating on one verse, repeating it in her head when he wasn’t around.
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
The noises from the kitchen finally stopped and she looked in to find him face down in the oatmeal and still as the baby she had born alone in a dirty bathroom.
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” She dug in his pants pocket for his wallet and found it full of cash. With a dull look on her face, she emptied the wallet and placed it back in his pocket, then put the money in her purse hanging on the hook by the back door.
With a sudden smile that she couldn’t hide, she picked up the phone and called the ambulance. Her act perfected by twenty years of practice, she sounded sad as she informed the operator of her husband’s sudden heart attack.
That task complete, she sat down on the davenport with her Bible in her hand and opened it to a well-worn page. Green bills spilled out over her hands, more than enough to start a new life somewhere else with the memories of twenty years of pain and falsehood behind her. Looking down at the words that had kept her alive, she whispered them once again.
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
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Revenge is definitely bliss.
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And faith. You created a mood and brought it to life through characters who got their just rewards. Vengeance is indeed bliss in this instance.
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