Upon writing this story, I subconsciously included my opinions and thoughts about women's position in society by making the story universal. Again, I wrote about cycles, except now it is not in nature, but in human behavior.
The face of her mother�s antique clock gleamed
grimly upon her as its hands revolved languidly, sluggishly ticking time away.
Her cumbersome gaze shifted heavily from the swinging pendulum to the bare,
plastic dinner plates set before her.
The leaded
weights of her eyelids barely managed to lift again as she blinked at the
ancient, checkered tablecloth. She remembered the days when the red and white
colors were new and bright, and how her mother would spread it onto the pine
table swiftly in one motion. It reminded her of her childhood when she still had
her naivete, before everything changed.
The red
squares had faded to a drab shade of pink as the white squares had browned and
stained, yet the occasion called for a tablecloth. She silently pleaded that
Johnny would approve.
Gleaming headlights penetrated
the darkness from the window as a random car harmlessly rolled down the road.
She immediately glanced at the food warming on the stove. Maybe Johnny would
think this meal as palatable.
An incident from the
night before flared into her consciousness. She could still hear the clamorous
striking of a pot as he struck it to the ground; she could still picture the
burned green beans splattering upon the kitchen floor. Never would she let it
happen again.
Her head drooped drowsily as she
recalled the day�s hard labor for the thousandth time. In her mind she skimmed
through the checklist to make sure everything had been completed.
At daybreak she made him a hearty
breakfast�eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, and coffee. Though she carelessly forgot to add
two spoonfuls of sugar rather than one, she hoped he did not notice the difference.
He left the house quite hastily, as was his nature. Occasionally if he were at
least a tiny bit cheerful he would kiss her goodbye and shut the door softly;
this morning he did neither.
She washed the
breakfast dishes by hand then attended to her daily chores: vacuuming, dusting,
and washing the clothes, among other things. She had a sudden and intense
appetite for a pastry, so she scooped up her tattered, brown sweater to hide the
bruises and walked to the bakery.
With lemon cr�me
still sticking to the corners of her appeased mouth, she strolled down the
aisles of the market, in hopes of an inspiration of something for dinner. She
encountered her friendly acquaintance, Billy Jean, who explained how her son,
Bobby, acquired a stomach virus from the minister�s son.
At this Johnny�s wife remembered her own queasy
feeling she had awoken to before breakfast.
Billy
Jean told her of a scrumptious western-style chicken recipe, and after she
gathered the necessary ingredients at the market, she returned home. She spent
the rest of the entire afternoon meticulously preparing a decent feast,
including the western-style chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and apple pie,
all of which she made from scratch.
She now glanced
at the wall clock�8:57. She thought it absolutely bizarre that Johnny was not
home from work yet. Maybe he had a lot of paperwork. Maybe he got caught in
traffic. He certainly never went to the bar on
Thursdays.
Her gaze tumbled down the length of the
rusty pendulum. Its constant motion was enough to keep her
awake.
Car lights flooded into the kitchen from the
driveway, and she rose feebly to meet her husband. The screen door was thrown
open, and she heard the thud of heavy feet treading into the den. Then
suddenly�silence. No sound, no movement, save for the majestic striking of the
clock.
She meekly shuffled into the living room to
find his jaded figure slumped low in an armchair.
"Dear, did you have a good day?" she called.
He
approved the question with unclear, garbled speech as he somewhat
nodded.
Something within her shifted, and she placed
a hand on a firm swelling on her lower stomach. She craved mashed
potatoes.
She said carefully, "Well, dear�I�m�I�m
going to eat dinner. Please come eat when you�re hungry." She doubtfully turned
and left his recalcitrant form still slouched in the chair. She piled numerous
spoonfuls of the white, lumpy substance onto a plastic plate. Heavily, she sat
back down.
After several minutes of her inhaling
many servings of mashed potatoes, Johnny stumbled into the kitchen. His glassy
eyes shone like black beetles burrowed in the white sands of his haggard
face.
She swallowed deeply and folded her hands in
her lap. She looked at him fearfully; imminent thoughts told her of the horrible
occurrence that she swore wouldn�t happen again.
Fiercely, he dashed the pot of mashed potatoes to the floor; the loud banging
reverberated throughout the house. He flung down the chicken, the biscuits, and
the apple pie. The entire meal that she had so magnanimously prepared now
covered the entire kitchen floor.
Her head dropped
to her chest; her entire body trembled. He drew back his arm like a pitcher
winding his arm to throw a curveball. His twisted, gnarled sneer danced round in
her mind. Her thoughts rushed briskly and effortlessly as the clock seemed to
stop and the world to spin.
Why was she still with
him? Why did she still try to please his every whim? Why was she still being
servile to him just as her mother had taught her? Why did she still let him beat
her, even when she had repeatedly seen the same hurt in her mother�s
eyes?
She knew of no other way. Besides, she found
no other way to pay for her mother�s hospital bills.
So she gave in to her destiny, even welcomed it. His fist struck her full-force,
flinging her into the mess on the floor.
He left
the room. The clock resumed its rhythmic ticking.
She lay sprawled in a contorted position and stared blankly at the ceiling.
There was no movement in the room, none in the bulge of her stomach, none in her
misshapen body. The vicious cycle had ended.