Darla scowled through the screen of her visible breath. The chill gnawed
on her bones and joints and tears froze in the corners of her bloodshot
eyes and on her diluted impressionistic face, and then melted from her
fever. "Oh," she ventured a whisper and it catapulted into the clouds and
reverborated over all the visible land. The whisper transformed itself
into a wimper, wimper became whine, whine then cried and full of anguish,
screamed, pleaded, "OOHHHH..."
She was alone, not uncommon. no friends placed warm, wet cloths on her forehead. No mothers and fathers worried. No lover paced or held her hand. Her emaciated body shook and battered itself upon the beige, filthy sheet. Her hair clung to her forehead, sticking up and out, like an intense, natural, heavy and defeating crown. Darla's insides were revolting. She retched and retched, but she was empty.
The thing came out. It was not fat. Its ribs were reminiscent of her own- caving outward and then back, where a ghost of a stomach should have been. She would remember later the image of her child and note that it had no nose and that its lips were split as if some cruel, spaceless assailant had beaten it to a bloody pulp inside of her.
She curled up without knowing and huddled beneath the damp covers and waited to die. She did not die. Time passed until she heard rhythmic pounding erupt beneath her. She thought the earth would swallow her up and she could disappear and finally be warm. Instead, looking through the slats of the cot, she saw his shit-kicking cowboy boots and the faded gray of his trousers. He shook her to see if she was alive. The stench of blood and death must have overwhelmed him, because he he gagged.
But before she fainted from his violent shaking she found the strength to move her face to the edge of the bed, gather as much saliva as she could muster and spit on his shoes.
**
Roxanne sang that night at the performance, after weeks of rehearsals. She stood on the stage in her slinking purple gown. "Wish on everything- pray that she remains...." The audience was captivated, but she was singing just to one man. He was proud to be her love.
After the show, Frankie held her hand. He couldn't look at her- she seemed too beautiful to be real. He was just thinking of how warm she was, and how her skin glowed, and the way she breathed his name. He didn't notice the terrified look in her eyes and the way she kept peering over he shoulder.
When they got back to the townhouse he grinned sheepishly, "Hold on..." And went into his luxurious room. He emerged with a single red rose, "I meant to bring this tonight to toss at you, but I forgot..." He blushed, "You were so wonderful tonight, Roxanne."
"I'm scared... Can I stay with you tonight?" she asked, looking around suspiciously.
He smiled, "Of course, you can, darling. Of course."
Once inside Frankie's bedroom, Roxanne felt safe at last. She undid the buttons on the back of her dress and got into one of Frankie's undershirts. She curled up in his bed and beckoned for him. They hadn't made love since she'd auditioned for the show.
She wanted to say it when he kissed he shoulders. She wanted to say it over and over while he touched her all the places other men had not been allowed. She wanted to say it when he came. But it wasn't until afterwards, when she heard something in another room. Frankie was quiet, nearly sleeping already, but she shook him awake nearly bursting into tears. "That bastard! He's coming..." she cried, "I love you, I love you."
She saw his eyes open and a smile spread on his sleepy face as he heard the words. The door opened, Roxanne saw the knife gleaming in the candlelight. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I love you."
She was alone, not uncommon. no friends placed warm, wet cloths on her forehead. No mothers and fathers worried. No lover paced or held her hand. Her emaciated body shook and battered itself upon the beige, filthy sheet. Her hair clung to her forehead, sticking up and out, like an intense, natural, heavy and defeating crown. Darla's insides were revolting. She retched and retched, but she was empty.
The thing came out. It was not fat. Its ribs were reminiscent of her own- caving outward and then back, where a ghost of a stomach should have been. She would remember later the image of her child and note that it had no nose and that its lips were split as if some cruel, spaceless assailant had beaten it to a bloody pulp inside of her.
She curled up without knowing and huddled beneath the damp covers and waited to die. She did not die. Time passed until she heard rhythmic pounding erupt beneath her. She thought the earth would swallow her up and she could disappear and finally be warm. Instead, looking through the slats of the cot, she saw his shit-kicking cowboy boots and the faded gray of his trousers. He shook her to see if she was alive. The stench of blood and death must have overwhelmed him, because he he gagged.
But before she fainted from his violent shaking she found the strength to move her face to the edge of the bed, gather as much saliva as she could muster and spit on his shoes.
**
Roxanne sang that night at the performance, after weeks of rehearsals. She stood on the stage in her slinking purple gown. "Wish on everything- pray that she remains...." The audience was captivated, but she was singing just to one man. He was proud to be her love.
After the show, Frankie held her hand. He couldn't look at her- she seemed too beautiful to be real. He was just thinking of how warm she was, and how her skin glowed, and the way she breathed his name. He didn't notice the terrified look in her eyes and the way she kept peering over he shoulder.
When they got back to the townhouse he grinned sheepishly, "Hold on..." And went into his luxurious room. He emerged with a single red rose, "I meant to bring this tonight to toss at you, but I forgot..." He blushed, "You were so wonderful tonight, Roxanne."
"I'm scared... Can I stay with you tonight?" she asked, looking around suspiciously.
He smiled, "Of course, you can, darling. Of course."
Once inside Frankie's bedroom, Roxanne felt safe at last. She undid the buttons on the back of her dress and got into one of Frankie's undershirts. She curled up in his bed and beckoned for him. They hadn't made love since she'd auditioned for the show.
She wanted to say it when he kissed he shoulders. She wanted to say it over and over while he touched her all the places other men had not been allowed. She wanted to say it when he came. But it wasn't until afterwards, when she heard something in another room. Frankie was quiet, nearly sleeping already, but she shook him awake nearly bursting into tears. "That bastard! He's coming..." she cried, "I love you, I love you."
She saw his eyes open and a smile spread on his sleepy face as he heard the words. The door opened, Roxanne saw the knife gleaming in the candlelight. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I love you."