SNOW IN AUGUST
-Illusiional Ice-
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Disclaimer: There's a reason why this is called the 'disclaimer' and not the 'claimer'. All characters and story plots belong to Jane Austen. I simply twist them with my imagination, cross my fingers, and hope they deliver well.
Warning: As set in the modern era, this fanfiction contains explicit language. If you do not like reading the usages of stronger words, now is a good time to turn back.
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It happened all too quickly. Too quickly for Elizabeth to even take the time to think, sort, and analyze things for herself. The last couple days had been a blur; one that she recalled very little of. Even when she thought as hard as she could, she conjured up very little. Flashes of memories appeared in her mind's eye, revealing an unfamiliar black pair of pantyhose, a foreign scent of perfume, and a blond haired woman with long lashes and piercing blue eyes. Three images crudely strung together and discovered in the course of a single night. Elizabeth stopped short in her thoughts, only to rewind and play them again.
Flashback.
Having caught an earlier flight from New York, she returned home a few hours before she was expected. She glanced at her watch—it was nine thirty. Walking up the stairs to the apartment with her luggage, she fumbled for her keys in her purse, wearily muttering to herself. Finding the key, she stuck it into the lock and turned. When the door swung opened, she was blown away by a mind numbing smell.
She stood for a few seconds, dumbfounded by the intense wave of perfume she had so unexpectedly breathed in. Her eyes began to water, and she stumbled a few steps backwards before throwing her head up into the deepening night, allowing the cool night breeze to wash over her. When she regained her senses, she walked back to the door, prepared for another ill-fated fragrant attack.
When she inhaled a second time, she froze. Not only was the smell not cologne, it was not hers. Frowning, she walked into the apartment and closed the door behind her. Just as she was about to call out to George and announce her arrival, the condition of the living room caught her attention and drove away all her thoughts.
Her jaws dropped at the sight before her. Bags of opened chips were carelessly sprawled out across the table as one bag was tipped over the other, messily spilling out half of its contents. Cans of beer were scattered across the floor, some upright and others knocked over. Two plates of instant meal pasta were on table, one scraped clean and the other still half full.
"What has he been doing?" she asked herself, shaking her head disapprovingly at her husband's formidable ability to transform everywhere he went into an unwelcoming and disgusting pigsty. How many times did she have to lecture him about cleaning up after himself? A week without a wife and the apartment becomes a filthy place that would have been the target of any health sanitation's agency.
As she scanned the room for any other unforgivable messes, she opened her mouth to call his name, curious as to why he had not yet come out to greet her. Her mouth froze when her eyes reached the couch. Subsequently, her mind drew a blank.
Carelessly flung across the arm of the couch was a bright red, long-sleeved sweater. Even from a distance, she could see clusters of tacky sequins on the gaudy sweater shimmer under the dimmed living room lights. As soon as she saw it, she knew it was not hers. What disturbed her even more was the black polo shirt of her husband that lay only a few inches away from the sweater. In great disbelief of the conclusion that her new discovery of evidences offered, she closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind.
"No," she thought. "He couldn't have. Not George. He must have a valid explanation for all of this."
When she opened her eyes and took a deep breath, she walked down the hallway and approached their room. Halfway down the hallway, she froze again. This time, it was a matter of minutes before she could recollect her train of thought and rationality. Lying on the floor before her was a silky black pair of pantyhose, coupled by a pair of bright red pumps. Surging with rage, she stormed down the rest of the hallway, took a quick turn, grabbed the door handle, and turned.
The door was locked. Why would it be locked? George never bothered to lock doors.
As waves of realization overtook her stubborn state of denial, Elizabeth put her ears to the door. A moan, a groan, and an unmistakable shift in bed. She stopped, tore herself away from the door, and leaned against the wall for support, breathing heavily. Was she to pound on the door and demand her husband back? Yell at him and administer a direct slap in the face?
No, she couldn't. Though she knew very well what was taking placed beyond the locked door, she did not want to see for herself. From what she had heard, it was enough.
Numbed in all of her senses, she slowly trudged back into the living room before miserably collapsing onto the couch. She was going to wait on the couch with her arms and legs crossed, see that startled reaction on the face of her husband, and allow the entirety of hell to break loose and set free.
Nearly two hours later, she heard the door opened. She glanced at her watch. It was now twelve thirty, half an hour before she was supposed to be home. She heard whispers in the hallway, unable to clearly make out what was being said. Then, out of nowhere, a shy giggle of a woman feebly echoed the hall and was soon answered by George's deep chuckle. As footsteps neared the living room, Elizabeth prepared herself.
George emerged alongside a blond woman. Although Elizabeth hated to admit it, the woman was regrettably more beautiful than her, with features more delicate and refined. As George entered the living room, his eyes froze at Elizabeth's image, and his jaws promptly fell agape. He stood, flabbergasted and shocked. Elizabeth crossed her arms, pursed her lips, and waited for him to speak. The woman glanced anxiously between them and observed their reactions before deciding to remain silent.
"Lizzy? Why—why are you here?" he stammered, averting his gaze.
"I am here because this is my home," Elizabeth brusquely replied as she loudly emphasized the last four words, glaring at the man before her.
George felt as though his wife's relentless glare was going to burn a hole right through his body. He silently stood, unsure of what to say.
Turning to the woman, Elizabeth addressed her.
"I see we haven't met before. I also see that you have recollected your pantyhose and shoes. I now suggest that you walk right over here and get your sweater as well. Lastly, I kindly advise you to never wear whatever perfume it is you're wearing right now. Quite frankly, the smell is atrocious. Therefore, it'd be best that you leave and spread your nauseating fragrance elsewhere."
The woman goggled at Elizabeth before looking to George for some sort of defense. Noticing the woman's silent plea for George's help, Elizabeth sneered when she saw her husband's inanimate reaction.
"Are you going to say something, George? Defend her, perhaps? If not, tell her to get out of my house," Elizabeth coldly said, throwing a disgusted look at her husband.
After a few moments of hesitation, George turned to the woman and spoke to her.
"Denise, I think you should leave now. I'll take care of it."
The woman slowly nodded and grabbed her sweater before walking out the door. Once the door clicked shut, Elizabeth stood up from her seat, walked up to her husband, and glowered at him.
"Explain yourself," she spat, drawing herself up to her full height.
"It's not what it looks like, Lizzy."
"Then what is it supposed to look like?" she shot back at him, even angrier now at his lack of explanation. Obviously he had been caught off guard and didn't even have the decency to have such affairs in discreet conduct.
"She doesn't mean anything to me, I swear. She's just—oh Lizzy, you've been away at Jane's for a week. I needed to—"
"Satisfy your desires? Fulfill your secret fantasies? Hire a prostitute? If you think you can convince me with what you've just said, think again."
"We all make mistakes, Lizzy. She's nothing to me. We didn't even do anything. I'm sorry. I love you, Liz," he halfheartedly said, taking a step closer to her.
Elizabeth took a giant step away from her husband as she pointed her finger at him, her body quivering with anger.
"You—guys—didn't—do—anything?" she screeched, waves of hot rage coursing throughout her body. "Don't you dare say that you love me. A sweater the couch? A pair of pantyhose and shoes lying on the floor? What do you take me for? Some brainless idiot living in a world of denial and stupidity?"
"Elizabeth, you know I would never do anything to hurt you."
Elizabeth threw her head up and laughed derisively at the statement.
"Oh, and what a brave and dignified proclamation. You, of all people, would never hurt me?" she hysterically cried. "Not only do you take me for some dim-witted fool, you tell me that none of this was supposed to hurt me? I heard everything that went on in that bedroom, George. Don't pretend like nothing happened. You're fooling no one."
George stared at Elizabeth in disbelief that she had actually heard them in the room. Elizabeth ignored his silent response and continued.
"Don't even bother explaining because I don't need to hear it. Everything that's happened tonight—everything I've seen, heard, and to my greatest misfortune, even smelled, has told me everything. Save yourself the trouble because you're moving out," she coolly said, trying with all her might to contain her anger.
"You have no right to kick me out of this house," he automatically responded, determinedly crossing his arms.
"Oh, so I see you've finally decided to talk. You offer me no explanations and stand there like some pathetic little wooden doll. The only time you bother to answer me is when I tell you to get out of my house. Well George, see if you can find anything else to defend yourself with. Because tonight, or any more nights, for that matter, you're not sleeping here."
"I am your husband, and you are my wife. I'm staying—and there's no changing that," he finished, the tone of his voice tensing uneasily.
Elizabeth's anger surged through her body and right out of her mouth. She scathingly glared at her husband and cried, "I am no wife of yours. From this day on, I am Elizabeth Bennet."
George approached Elizabeth, smashed her against him, and kissed her. Elizabeth immediately resisted him, pulled away, and delivered a sharp slap to his face. George automatically recoiled, touching his reddening cheek as he angrily flashed a glare at her.
"How dare you? No wife of mine will ever slap me," he said through gritted teeth, raising his own hand now.
"Let me repeat myself. I—am—not—your—wife," she yelled, her voice cracking in response to her angry and heated temper.
"I am not your wife, and above all else, I will NOT be your whore," she finished, picking up an empty beer can on the ground. Aiming at George, she swung her arm back and chucked it at him. He dodged, and the can hit the floor with a loud clang.
A heated silence passed between them. Elizabeth bit back her tears and turned to look him in the eye.
"How long?" she asked with a wavering voice.
"What do you mean by how long?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
A short silence followed before a response.
"Two months."
Tears welled up in Elizabeth's eyes and her body shook with emotions. Two months? They had been together for two months and she had not a clue. Perhaps he had been discreet after all. Having never been so disgusted and repulsed in her life, she furiously glared at her husband.
"Get out," she cried, pointing at the door. "Get out, get out, get out!"
Picking up all the cans on the ground, she mustered all of her strength and threw them at him, one after another. Some found their target while others crashed loudly to the floor.
"You unappreciative little bitch. I work, provide, and feed you. Fine—I'll leave. You have no job, no connections, no money. So go ahead, starve to death. Or better yet, try making yourself useful for a change."
His last accusation rang loudly in Elizabeth's ears. She looked and stared straight back at him. Elizabeth was without job and had been for the six months that they had been married. She lost her previous job as a secretary after her company reportedly went bankrupt and was forced to close. Tough luck, she knew. And during a time when the economy fared poorly, it was hard to find another job that was hiring and offering to pay a decent amount of money. All this time that she had been without a job, that was what George thought she was? Some useless git whose only purpose in life was to be a burden for her husband? Was this why he decided to cheat on her?
"Get out," she ordered with narrowed eyes. "Now, or I'm calling the police."
"Fine, but once I step foot out of this door, you're on your own. And I mean it," he spat and returned her glare, grabbing a coat from the closet before walking to the door. "I'll be back tomorrow to get my things."
And that was how it ended. He came back, grabbed his things, and left. Elizabeth sat by the window sill, glancing outside. The rain pattered on the roof, tapping out its own unique rhythm and dance. It was cloudy outside, and a light fog was settling alongside a setting sun. A stricken tear rolled down her face. Of all the people in the world, she never would have expected it to happen to her. She never once suspected George to be capable of infidelity. But then again, when can one ever be sure of another's true character?
She continued to stare out the window, allowing the beating of the rain outside to numb her thoughts, her feelings, and her senses. She looked out the window, wondering what he was doing at the moment, and how he was getting along with that woman named Denise.
She sat there, a couple hours longer with tears pouring down her face, the divorce papers clutched firmly in her hand.
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