Short Story #2 – Sarah Bourdeau

Short Story Draft #1

It’s so cold. The winds are strong, and my eyes water from their unrelenting bitterness. I could roll up the windows, but the roads distract me. I crave the vortex. My vision blurs with large wet drops and the white and yellow lines grow challenging to follow. My arms are speckled with bumps as my wispy arm hairs stand on end. I have a destination but we’re still far from it.

It’s so cold. My mother-in-law in the passenger seat stares blankly at me. I keep my eyes on the road. I feel her gaze on the nape of my neck, she’s taunting me to speak. Her eyes are so glaring in the darkness that surrounds us. After all these years I’m still a failure.

“I’m sorry” the words asphyxiate me. Pain singes at my throat as more tears clog my vision. A deer darts out from the woods making me jerk the wheel aside. My knee hits the door and my heart beats faster. I feel like I am consuming air faster than it can fill the car.

It’s so cold. I sit up straighter as if it will fix years of self consciousness. No, sinking into the background has never worked. Some emotions fester, they drag your limp body across the concrete and never yield. Jealousy always wins. The interior of my car is black like the ashen outside sky; not that I can see it under the denseness of the trees. My brother shakes his head in the backseat. He always wanted me to be a lawyer, while I knew I would never make it to thirty. His face is barely visible in the rearview mirror, illuminated by the scarce street lights and blue glow from various car-buttons. It’s just enough light to see the slow side-to-side rhythm of his head.

My arms hurt, I’m tired of driving and my back aches.

It’s so cold. The road winds ruthlessly, I feel like I’m going in circles. Maybe I am. I feel sick.

“I can’t help any of you,” I say, “and you can’t help me anymore.”

What more could they want from me? Haven’t I given them enough? Why won’t they say something?

My best friend sits behind my aunt, her face in her phone. I know she’s texting and calling me as my phone won’t stop vibrating in my cup holder. The incessant buzzing is maddening.

“Would you just shut the fuck up?!” I shout in a shrill uproar. I finally worked up the courage to launch the buzzing thing out the window. No one else moves. My aunt still stares, my brother shaking his head, my friend hitting the call button again. What is their problem?

It’s so cold. I’m crying again, shaking in despair. A sharp turn makes me slam the breaks. I am wrenched back from my own agony. 12:32 a.m. Keep going North. Don’t stop. Don’t look at them. Don’t even think.

Story #2 Workshop Draft

What Lies at the Bottom of the Pond

October 12, 2019, 12:14 a.m.

It’s so cold. The winds are strong, and my eyes water from their unrelenting bitterness. I could roll up the windows, but the roads distract me. I crave this whirlwind. My vision blurs with large wet drops and the white and yellow lines grow challenging to follow. My arms are speckled with bumps as my wispy arm hairs stand on end. I have a destination but we’re still far from it.

“I’m sorry” the words asphyxiate me. Pain singes at my throat as more tears clog my vision. A deer darts out from the woods making me jerk the wheel aside. My knee hits the door and my heart beats faster. The seatbelt is constricting against my chest, I feel like I am consuming air faster than it can fill the car.

It’s so cold. I sit up straighter as if it will fix years of self consciousness. No, sinking into the background has never worked. Some emotions fester, they drag your limp body across the concrete and never yield. Open wounds become infected. How did it get to this? The interior of my Honda is black like the ashen outside sky; not that I can see it under the denseness of the trees. My brother shakes his head in the backseat. I can’t look him in the eyes. He always wanted me to be a lawyer, while I knew I would never make it to thirty. His face is barely visible in the rearview mirror, illuminated by the scarce street lights and blue glow from various car-buttons. It’s just enough light to see the slow side-to-side rhythm of his head.

My arms hurt, I’m tired of driving and my back aches.

It’s so cold. The road winds ruthlessly, I feel like I’m going in circles. Maybe I am. I feel sick. Don’t look.

“I can’t help any of you,” I say, “and you can’t help me anymore.”

What more could they want from me? Haven’t I given them enough? Why won’t they say something?

My sister sits behind my mother-in-law, her face in her phone. Her head tilted down so her sweeping hair covers her panicked expression. I know she’s texting and calling me as my phone won’t stop vibrating in my cup holder. The incessant buzzing is maddening.

“Would you just shut the fuck up?!” I shout in a shrill uproar. I finally worked up the courage to launch the buzzing thing out the window. No one else moves. My mother-in-law still stares, my brother shaking his head, my sister hitting the call button again. What is their problem?

It’s so cold. I’m crying again, shaking in despair. A sharp turn makes me slam the breaks. I am wrenched back from my own agony. Once again gasping for air I check the clock, 12:32 a.m. Keep going North. Don’t stop. Don’t look at them. Oh god, what have I done?

It’s so cold.

I spot a glimpse of a river nearby, good. I’m looking for a pond. My foot urges the pedal lower. My stomach is on a spin cycle, and a hint of acid tastes on my tongue.

My mother-in-law’s jaw bounces up and down as she speaks, the rushing wind drowns her out. Do not make eye contact.

My mouth is beginning to water more and more; a flooded swamp. My hair sways wildly, sticking to my cheeks as they grow damp with tears. I might throw up. No, I am going to throw up. Brake, brake, brake. Don’t break. I stop the car.

I grip the handle and practically fling myself from the car, hot bile streaks up my throat, covering the bumpy pavement as I crouch on all fours. Like an animal I sit there heaving, the asphalt digging into my frail hands. I have no more stomach contents to purge, I rock myself back to lean against my back passenger door. The night air is suffocatingly sharp, it hurts to breathe deeply. My breath whorls up into nothingness. Propping myself up, I gasp as the bruising on my hip pulsates. I pick a few pieces of pavement from my palms and try to listen. The trees rustle like they used to in our backyard. My husband, Kyle, used to bring me his favorite leaf as they started to change colors. “Look how vibrant this red is, and the tiny spots of yellow…” He would express with a look of fascination. Those were better times. It’s really a shame.

I force myself to get back in the car. I find my seats empty, no brother, no sister, and no mother-in-law. Just me and my husband. I peek in the back seat where Kyle lays across the floor, his ripped shirt exposing nearly black bruises along his side. His face is unwavering, serenely dreaming of some place better than this one. I buckle my seatbelt and hit the gas.

September 28, 2019, 8:33 a.m.

“Well it looks like all of your testing has come back clean,” My head spins as my doctor tells me the news. I have been dealing with sleep problems for months now and nothing? I used to run half marathons, and now I struggle to get out of bed most days. What changed? “Your bloodwork shows that you use Nitrazepam already, so I can’t prescribe you any sedatives” She continues. That’s odd, I don’t take anything other than melatonin, how can that be? “But I don’t take Nitrazepam, could melatonin show up as that somehow?” I asked. I watched as my doctor’s eyebrows knitted for a moment, “Well, no, melatonin only stays in the body for a short period of time, so unless you took it at four this morning, no.” She responded with blunt confusion. My brain felt like a toddler shaking a maraca, how could Nitrazepam show up in my blood work when I have never taken it before? “Can they rerun that test?” I ask, and the doctor agrees and sweeps out of the room.

October 12, 2019, 12:39 a.m.

It’s so cold.

A divorce would have been easier. Less consequences, but still potentially life-ruining. I took a risk. Don’t we all?

October 9, 2019, 10:53 p.m.

“Are you feeling chamomile, uh Roo..ibos, lemon lavender, mint?” Kyle likes to make us tea before bed, especially when work gets stressful. I work in sales, some awful insurance stuff that nobody wants to deal with, but I have to meet my quotas. Kyle is a real estate broker who got lucky and made it big a few years back. Our jobs support us, they have their times of growth and luls, but we get by. “Do we still have that ginger one?” I ask.

October 10, 7:36 a.m.

I wearily gaze in the mirror at the large dark bruises forming on my right hip that matches the bags under my eyes. “Hey did I fall out of the bed or something?” I question Kyle. My whole body aches and I find myself struggling with the weight of my eyelids as I get ready for work. “I don’t know, probably” He says dismissively. It seems odd to me that Kyle wouldn’t hear me thump off the bed, or that I wouldn’t remember getting back in bed if I did. I’m spiraling, a chill enters my body, none of this makes sense.

October 11, 2019, 10:37 p.m.

My sister lets me into her apartment. I used to have a key but I lost it a few months ago. She welcomes me in, and I put my bag in her room as I am staying the night. She’s in the process of moving to a new apartment in the next town over, and I offered to help her with some of her stuff. I know the stress of moving.

“Kyle normally makes me tea before bed to help me sleep, do you have any tea?” I ask her. “Yeah I have hibiscus, chamomile, and a green tea,” she tells me as she sorts through her boxes of kitchen stuff looking for them. She finds chamomile first, so that’s what we go with. I fill the electric kettle and wait for it to boil. “Stressed at work?” She asks me. “No, not now, just exhausted even though I have been sleeping like a rock” I answer, showing her the bruise on my hip that has grown more yellow and purple since yesterday morning. “Marissa, that’s awful” she gasps, “how could that have happened?” I shrug off her concerns with the most likely answer in my mind, falling out of the bed, she seems unconvinced. She gently grabs my wrist and looks at me directly, her usual muted brown eyes have a worried glint. “Is Kyle hurting you?” Concern laces her voice. “No, Nicole, god no… what?” I shake my head at her and pull back from her grip. I appreciate her concern but Kyle is a sweetheart, he would never lay a hand on me. The kettle has reached a steady boil, and I put space between my sister and I by grabbing come mugs out of her boxes for us. “Marissa, you know I’m here for you, right? You can talk to me” She tries to continue, but I flash her a glance that gets the point across. The conversation is over. I pour the hot water into the #1 Best Sister mug our brother got us both for Christmas a few years ago, and one with a gray tabby cat on it. I grab the tea box, and notice it’s the same brand that Kyle and I have back home. Dabbing the tea bag up and down, the water takes on a light orange pigment. I swirl around the soggy tea bag, and bring the mugs over to the table where my sister sits cross-legged. As I take my first sip I set my tongue on fire, prickling down my throat, but above the heat, the tea is sweet. Much sweeter than normal. I didn’t add honey, or sugar, or syrup, or cream. But the tea is unusually sugary. “Is yours super sweet?” I ask Nicole. “No, why? Do you need sugar?” She responds. “No, It’s so much sweeter than normal, but we have the same brand…It’s just odd”. She lets me take a sip of hers and it’s the same, too sweet.

October 12, 2019, 7:20 a.m.

It’s morning. And I’m awake. So startlingly awake.

I stumble my way to Nicole’s bathroom, feeling lighter than normal. My hands steady me on either side of her off-white marbled sink, it’s so cold.

“I’ve gotta go,” I whisk everything back into my bag and swing it into my arms and head for the door. “Marissa, what’s wrong?” Nicole tiredly calls out from the bedroom as the door clicks behind me.

October 12, 2019, 10:01 p.m.

A reimagined electricity has been jolting me all day, I am perched at the edge of the bed like a vulture. A pad of sickly pink-orange tablets crinkles under my phone, the buzzing is back, it’s Nicole again, calling and calling. Like a tornado tearing the house apart from the ground up, a whirlwind consumed me and everything we own. I frantically threw open cabinets, flipping furniture until my search yielded these tiny tablets. Now, I wait for Kyle. God only knows where he is.

October 12, 2019, 10:10 p.m.

My husband enters through the front door. My heart beats louder than a drum, I sit, palms face up, weighed down by the metal bat. He comes to the bedroom. His expression is cold, so is mine. “Nitrazepam” I offer, his eyes latch onto mine, flicker to the bat in my hands where my knuckles are turning white, then he looks back into my eyes. He won’t find anything there. “A sedative, in tablet form, crushable, similar in texture to sugar, but bitter in taste” I continue. “Riss,” He starts but I stand up. “A pad of them, like this one is how they come … the mattress ripped, no, cut to fit them in perfectly,” my insides are burning with the revelation, speaking it aloud makes it all too real. “Marissa, what do you mean?” He speaks but I resume, “Chamomile tea is bitter, but a drug like Nitrazepam would surely make a regular chamomile seem sweet” Then directly, “Why have you been drugging me Kyle?” He might be taller than me but I’m the one with the weapon, I level a swing at this head. He steps back, seemingly frantic that his precious life is crumbling before him. “Marissa please put the bat down, you know I’m not like that. You’re making me out to be some villain” His face shifts into this calm and caring facade, it’s terrifying, I grip the bat tighter. “Look, Riss,” I hate that nickname spewing from his mouth like hot sewage, “you gotta understand, all men cheat, it’s just in our nature,”. I swing. He ducks, stretching for the bat. I step out of his reach. I hit him in the side with a smack of skin and metal, he grunts. Kyle grips the bat while I’m pulling it back, he tries to wrench it from my hands, but his hands are sweaty and slide off the top. With the force of me pulling back, the end of the bat digs into my bruise on my hip, the pain sends me to the floor. With only one hand on the bat, Kyle grabs it again. I sob, “You’re such an asshole, how could you be drugging your wife? To cheat?” I am unable to pry the bat from off the ground, Kyle presses into it with his whole body weight. Tears fill my eyes, they burn like blistering hot tea. My only choice is to let go and shove him with all my strength. It works. Kyle topples to the ground, I reach for his shirt out of some unknown instinct, the loose fabric tears. His head grazes the edge of the bed frame, not direct enough to knock him out, but enough to confuse him. I pick up the bat at the same time he begins to sit upright, I swing. I hit his head. Hard.

October 12, 2019, 1:00 a.m.

The pond is finally in sight. My family used to camp here, our parents warning us not to get too close to the edges that fell in steep cliffs. Now, my headlights stretch out toward the murky depths.

For the first time tonight, my breathing steadies. A release of control washes over me. I hit the gas.

The pond, it’s so cold.

Workshop Reflection

I think much of what was said in the workshop was things I already knew my story was missing. There are a lot of moving parts to this story, and it was difficult for me to keep track of them while I was writing it, so the draft had some aspects that went unchecked. In that sense, I believe that workshop helped solidify the portions for me to expand on if I were to revise this story. I generally do not love this piece, but it was experimental, and if anything I learned that this is not my favorite genre to write. Regardless, I am glad to have had the opportunity to try this out.

If I revise this, I would add on to the mother-in-law, brother, and husband’s relationships since these are generally not fleshed out to the extent I would like them to be. Space-wise this would not have worked out for the workshop, so I ended up omitting that development for these characters. I would also change the way the narrator goes about all of this, incorporating more of those little moments of doubt in her relationship with Kyle, and making her breakdown more authentic. Since it was a big jump from finding out she’s being drugged to killing her husband and herself, I would try to make this “break” less of a jump for her.