Cranberries

I’m staring at her and under the fluorescent lights everything is blue, blue, blue. Her mouth is slightly open and I can imagine what her breathing sounds like. But that isn’t the point. The lines around her eyes are pink and holding back tears. It is a heartbeat, and then I understand.

She knows I am here for her.

 It’s obvious by the way her eyes flick with a miserable hope as my pupils meet hers. The mop in her hand looks heavy by the way she is gripping it, but anyone with real eyes can tell her strength has been beaten out of her long before her shift started.

The can of cranberry sauce in my grip feels so miniscule and indifferent to the pounding echoing through my head. Everything seems stoic and silent with the strength of its pulse.  The mere thought of my original attention being directed to the can is delirious, and the idea sends a shiver of ignorant disgust down my spine. It is only me and her and the fact that I know exactly what she needs in this second, what the world needs in this second.

I take a step forward and I can see her hazel eyes are brimmed with tears and I wonder how long this manager has been doing this to her. I wonder how long she has tolerated and I wonder how long she’s hated. I keep her glance for only a moment and then I am walking toward her. The weight in the can shifts again and now my brain is regarding it as a weapon.

And I have never felt so convicted in my life.

Hot coils of anger spiral out in my arms, and I grit my teeth at the thought of what I am about to do. What I have to do. He is standing just out of sight, behind the doorway strung up with strips of plastic. I cast her one last glance, and her bright hazel eyes are following me. She is unaware she is staring, she is unaware that she is pleading. She has been waiting for someone to save her for some time now, waiting even for herself to finally stand up, to say something, anything. The thought brings a bitter taste to the back of my throat and I find myself wishing that this can of cranberry sauce was a brick.

Somewhere in the back of my head I can feel my mother asking where her nice holiday went. Demanding what the hell happened. Needing to know why I suddenly broke, why everything came cascading down to this one flicker in time. I am thinking of her as I shove past the hanging plastic, the cool temperature of the refrigerator section immediately nipping at the hair on my arms.

The manager is taking inventory, but I can no longer see his red shirt and blue apron. I can see only scum, only swine, only a life force that has the desperate desire to be extinguished. The rage is boiling hot in the back of my throat now and my vision starts to blur. I can see my mother again, only this time through a child’s eyes. I see her collapsed in the kitchen and sobbing, her work uniform still on and her hands wrapped around her face. She is afraid and I have never seen someone so petrified in my life. I realize that there is no justice, not for the ones that are silent. Not for the ones who cannot bear to fight back.

“Did you touch her?” I find myself asking, and my voice is cold and still. It seems foreign against the poison rage that is building in my blood. The manager swivels and I can see in his eyes that he is a sneaky and idiotic man. He starts to stutter, an excuse ready to drip from his lips. I repeat, this time the blinding anger leaking into my tone. He takes a step back, his too-blue eyes flashing to the already bent can in my hands and then to the girl behind me. My knuckles are white, because I already know the answer, and I already know the end to the story.

“Sir-,“ He starts, and I shove him to the concrete floor. I want him to admit it. I want him to comprehend how wrong he is, and how disgusting. I want him to say the words out loud so he can hear them in his own throat. But it is too late, and justice is served. The can of cranberry sauce splits open and pours onto the concrete, staining it red with the bittersweet smell.

Cement Shoes

The water seemed to be a storm in itself, gray and crashing. But the woman, who stood on the edge of it, balancing lightly on the concrete barrier that overlooked it, was calm. The large burgundy scarf wrapped around her neck hid most of her face and though her boots were caked in mud she still didn’t look out of place. It was dark this early in the morning, and with the clouds the sun still hadn’t crested over the horizon, but she would be gone long before then.

She needed just a moment, just a single suspended breath in time where she could take in the solace of being truly alone. But even now she knew she wasn’t alone, and never would be. She could feel a pressure somewhere deep in the back of her chest, maybe a clogging artery. No, that was generous and feigned ignorance. More likely, it was the reminder of her aching self-loathing, her desperate desire all but snuffed out. The guilt of her conscience, in more blatant terms. That could wait, now the pain was merely a prick in the back of her mind, a letter to be read on a later date.

Another wave crashed upon the concrete barrier, spraying her with the ocean’s kiss and spilling more than a few drops into her raven colored hair. She didn’t flinch against the sea’s roaring, but instead kept her distant, staring eyes on the water.

The memory did not burst forth through dramatic flashes, but instead seemed to soak into her through the flesh. It came slowly, then all at once, and Luca was no longer standing on the edge of the ocean but sitting in the middle of her living room, waiting. It was dark in the house and with the blinds blocking out the city’s lights, they created long shadows that crept across the carpet. Clawed hands waiting to be directed on whom to strangle. But in the center of the room, Luca was calm, or at least was telling herself that she was.

If he told her the truth when she asked, she could make it work. If he apologized, if he begged for forgiveness, she would forgive him. If he promised that she was the only one and that he was wrong, terribly fucked in the head, if you will, she would choose to let it go. She would make herself let it go. But that was all falling through like sand in her hands while she sat there waiting.

Waiting for him to come home.

Waiting for him to open that door and smile at her, the smile that would make her second-guess for just a moment. But what was the truth? The truth was the skimpy piece of pink silk she was crushing in her clenched fist. The truth was used condoms wrapped in toilet paper. The truth was a liar, a schemer, a defiler, and who could really forgive something like that?

There wasn’t time to answer before the front door slid open slowly.

He didn’t have time to notice her before her question filled the air, “Where have you been?” Even in the dark it was easy to tell her husband was half-surprised.

“Luca?” He asked, shutting the door softly behind him, but his voice was too awake for the early hour in the morning. Her lip quivered a little at the sound of her name, but her questions had fallen silent. All she needed was the truth, and she could get by.

“Just let me know where you’ve been.” She repeated, her voice breaking more than once. The evidence she clutched in her hand suddenly seemed to be on fire. He opened his mouth to make an excuse, a hand reaching out to gently squeeze her shoulder. She cut him off, “Touch me or don’t, just let me know where you’ve been.”

And there’s not a response. There’s never really been a response, not from him anyways. He’s always been some sort of mirror, reflecting back what she wanted to hear. And what she heard in him now was a lie by lack of response. He couldn’t even tell her the truth; he couldn’t even give her the decency of acknowledging his error. No, instead he tried to kiss her. With those lips that had been dipped in someone else’s blood.

The decision was clear for her now; there was no blind rage, no pulsing anger. There was only hatred burning like a cancer in her chest. The type of hatred that substituted painful clarity for reality. Luca gritted her teeth as she shoved her husband away, sending him sprawling onto the living room floor. It only took a moment for her to stand and to snatch the crystal vase from the top of the fireplace, smashing it down onto the wood floor so that it scattered a million pieces. She plucked a large one from the wreckage, aiming toward her traitor’s widened eyes.

“What are you doing?” He gasped, and Luca would always remember that gasp. Would always remember the way his hazel eyes were widened to saucers because of her. Good. He needed to be scared, should have been scared from the beginning. Should have recognized from the start what he would be losing, what he had deliberately tossed away. “Luca put that thing down!”

He was shouting now, and that simply would not do. He already had his opportunity to speak and had painfully neglected it. Besides, his admittance, god forbid his apology, couldn’t mend the tear he had already ripped into her. No, that was all a few seconds too late.

Her voice was frighteningly cool as she stated the words, unraveling the fabric of the pink panties so that he could see them in the pale light. “I’m sure there’s someone who knows where you’ve been.”

The waves crashed again and Luca focused her attention back to the swarming gray water. The sun had begun to show its first few rays of sunlight through the murky fog and Luca exhaled a breath with a hidden smile.

“Unless you have friends among fish, there’ll still be no air to breathe.” She repeated, remembering just how he looked with those unfamiliar panties shoved down his throat. His name had already bled out of her mind and now she would always know just where he was.