Moving on with the February romance theme, here’s another tale of dysfunctional marriage with a touch of magic thrown in. Published in DysFictional 2 and WPaD’s Dragons and Dreams.
She sits at an antique dressing table in front of a large, ornately framed mirror. The bridal veil perched atop her perfectly coiffed head cascades past her waist, brushing the floor. She checks her makeup, and then checks it again. She adjusts the veil, careful not to disturb her hair.
As she continues to primp and preen, a disembodied voice narrates in the background. It reminds her of Rod Serling from that old TV show, The Twilight Zone.
Fitting, she thinks, noticing for the first time that she and her surroundings are in black and white, just like in the show.
“The wedding day,” the narrator says. “The day every woman dreams of. The very best day of her life. Doesn’t she make a beautiful bride?”
Silently, she agrees.
I am beautiful, aren’t I?
The voice continues, “It’s the one day when she will be the star; all eyes will be upon her – the bride.”
There’s a pause, as eerie music rises in the background.
“But there’s one thing she doesn’t know about. One thing nobody has told her about. Nobody has warned her about…”
Her image in the mirror zooms in like a camera lens until only her neck and shoulders are visible. A shadow darkens her skin, beginning at her collarbone and creeping over her shoulder, blackening her skin to a charcoal hue. She brushes her fingertips over her skin and the darkness spreads to her hand and arm while continuing to envelop her neck and face.
“The black shadow…” the voice finishes.
* * *
Jane fumbled at the lamp until she found the switch. Soft light flooded the room, which was in full color, as was she. She held her hand in front of her face for confirmation, even though she knew it was only a dream. No blackened skin. No Rod Serling narrating in the background.
As disturbing as the dream was, Jane didn’t believe in prophetic visions, omens or any of that nonsense. She was, for all intents and purposes, an atheist, although she didn’t proclaim herself as such. She didn’t believe in ‘ists’ or ‘isms’. She preferred to think of herself as an “anti-ismist”.
She sighed and reached for the bottle of Nytol on the nightstand. That dream was probably the only chance she’d ever get to see herself in a wedding dress, so she might as well enjoy it, eerie as it was. She had given up on the white picket fence dream long ago. She was short, stocky and plain looking. Girls like her didn’t get swept off their feet by fairytale princes; they had to be happy with what life gave them. Her high school nickname, “Plain Jane”, suited her well.
* * *
One year later, Jane found herself wearing a sensible yet elegant wedding gown, selected by her fiancée’s mother. She sat at an antique dressing table in a back room of the church where she was to be married. The room, which was a parlor reserved for private conversations with the minister, also served as a waiting room for brides preparing to walk down the aisle. She had never imagined herself having a church wedding but it was important to Victor. Besides, who was she to argue? She was finally getting married – what else mattered?
She checked the clock. She had another thirty minutes before she was to walk down the aisle. She had gotten ready early, but on this day, she had no place else to be.
Jane primped in front of the ornate mirror, the ominous Twilight Zone dream all but forgotten. She wished she wasn’t so ordinary looking. Why couldn’t she be beautiful like the women pictured in the bridal magazines, even if just for one day? Her husband-to-be had accepted her the way she was – and for that she was grateful – but she still wished she could surprise him at the altar by arriving transformed into one of those breathtaking brides who modeled in the bridal magazines.
She reached into her purse and pulled out a small plastic bag containing the items she had purchased at the drug store earlier. She spread the objects on the tabletop and examined them. A tube of lipstick, almost the same color as her lips, but just pink enough to brighten them up. Some eye shadow, in natural tones with a frosty pink highlighter. One eyeliner pencil, charcoal gray and matching the mascara. The woman at the cosmetics counter had helped her choose the colors and shown her how to apply the foreign substances.
Here goes, she thought.
She outlined her eyes and then brushed the eye shadow over her lids the way she had been shown. The mascara was the trickiest – every time she touched the brush to her eyelashes she blinked involuntarily, getting the stuff on her skin where it wasn’t supposed to be. Finally she mastered it and sat back to admire the result. Her eyes looked sultry and mysterious with the long dark lashes. This was a look she could get used to.
The lipstick was the finishing touch. It was perfect.
She looked more beautiful than she ever had in her life
Victor would be so surprised!
A knock on the door jolted her out of her fantasy.
“Are you ready? It’s time,” a woman’s cold voice said. Marlene was Victor’s sister and also her maid of honor. Jane had wanted her best friend from high school to stand beside her on her wedding day but Victor forbade it. His family disapproved of Michelle Dhaliwal, partly because her family was from India, but also because she was a fashion model. (A whore, according to Victor) Michelle was tall, leggy and busty and Jane had always admired her exotic beauty. Victor believed she was a bad influence on Jane and insisted she sever ties with her best friend. Michelle wasn’t even allowed to attend the wedding as a guest. Jane was crushed, but Victor had the final word. Only members of the Baptist church would be present at their wedding. Suffice to say, the entire wedding party consisted of Victor’s family members. The “bride’s side” of the chapel would have been empty had it not been used as overflow seating for Victor’s family and members of their church. Jane’s parents were deceased, so Victor’s father had volunteered to give her away.
It didn’t matter; a wedding was a wedding and this was the only one she would get.
Jane pulled her veil over her face and waited for the music to start, then opened the door to her future.
* * *
The mascara ran down her face in ugly black streaks, carried by the tears that marked her wedding night. Locked in the bathroom of their honeymoon suite at the Marriott, Jane sobbed as she scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to remove all traces of the “whore paint”, as Victor called it.
Victor had gotten the surprise of his life when he lifted the veil to gaze upon his beautiful bride. He was not pleasantly surprised. In fact, he was livid. He managed to maintain his usual cool composure for the duration of the ceremony. He recited his vows monotone, repeating what the minister told him. When it came time to kiss the bride, his lips barely brushed hers before turning his face aside in disgust. He immediately wiped his mouth as if he had just tasted something revolting.
Jane struggled not to cry in front of everyone but was unable to stop the tears from flowing. Her makeup ran down her face in ugly black streaks, dripping down and staining the front of her dress. This was supposed to be HER day! How dare he ruin it like this?
Victor remained calm until they were behind closed doors inside their hotel suite. Then he exploded.
“How DARE you embarrass me like that? What were you thinking? Get that whore paint off your face NOW!”
Jane burst into tears.
“I thought… I just wanted to look… you know, pretty.”
“By defacing the temple of the Lord? Why don’t you just spray paint some graffiti on the wall of the church? You don’t look pretty! You look like a WHORE! You made a laughingstock out of me! I told them I was marrying a virgin! And you show up looking like a… a…” he sputtered, running out of words in his fury.
“But I am… a… I’ve never…” Jane whimpered, humiliated.
He unbuttoned his trousers. “You’d better be. You’d better hope to God you are, or there will be Hell to pay!” He shoved her toward the bathroom. “Cleanse yourself, whore! I can’t stand the sight of you!”
Jane’s introduction to sex was a miserable experience. It was the exact opposite of the way women’s magazines and romance novels described it. Victor was rough and uncaring, forcing himself into her without regard for her comfort. She bit her lips to keep from crying out but could do nothing to stem the flow of tears as he lay on top of her, grunting and thrusting. Fortunately, it was over in about five minutes.
Her wedding night set the tone for the rest of her married life: Pain, followed by degradation, followed by humiliation, followed by more pain. Sometimes the abuse was verbal, other times it was punctuated by a slap or a punch when he felt he wasn’t getting his point across. Victor wielded his fists in the name of the Lord, with a fury he mistook for righteousness.
Jane endured her loveless marriage year after year, accepting her husband’s mistreatment with a quiet resignation. It didn’t occur to her that she might have a choice. She had taken a vow and signed her life away. After all, marriage to a strong man was a woman’s purpose in life, wasn’t it? After six years of marriage they remained childless, which added to Victor’s disappointment in the wife he had chosen. He had married her for the purpose of producing an heir to carry on his family name and she had proven to be a failure in every sense of the word. His religion forbade divorce, so he was stuck with her and she knew it. He took the words, ‘until death’ very seriously.
The marriage would end only with one of their deaths.
* * *
She hadn’t heard from her best friend in a very long time when a package arrived, addressed to Jane. She squealed with delight when she saw the return address. It was from Michelle. She rushed downstairs to her sewing room to open the parcel in secret. Jane’s sewing room was her only haven; Victor never went in there. It was the only truly private space she had in the house.
She gasped when she saw the item Michelle had sent her. She had never seen anything so elegant. It was a rectangular jewelry box, about twelve inches long and six inches wide. It looked old; antique, possibly from India, made from what looked like carved ivory. She ran her fingers over the surface of the box, marvelling at the intricate carvings. When she held the box at different angles, the designs seemed to change, from figures of people to marvellous exotic creatures. The box sat on four finely carved feet that could be either avian or reptilian, complete with toes and talons.
What she found inside the box shocked her even more.
Jewelry.
Inside the box were several pieces of Michelle’s jewelry – expensive looking gold rings with gemstones in every color; dangly diamond earrings and a choker to match.
There was also a letter, from Michelle.
Hey Janey,
I’m sorry I couldn’t be at your wedding, but nobody can stop me from giving you a gift, just between us girls. This box has been in my family for generations. It was given to me by my mother, and her mother before her. My grandmother called it “The Box of Dreams”. She told me that it has the power to make dreams come true. Whatever that means. I used to keep jewelry and coins in it. I thought you might be able to find a better use for it. You deserve to have some beauty in your life. It is supposed to be passed from mother to daughter, but I will never have children. Maybe you’ll have better luck. Never forget how beautiful you are. Never let anyone tell you different.
Miss you bunches!
Love, Michelle.
xoxo
Jane’s eyes stung with tears when she read the note. Michelle had been diagnosed with cervical cancer at age nineteen. A hysterectomy was the only way to save her life. She had always laughed off the fact that she would never have children but Jane knew how deeply her friend was hurt. Adoption was not an option Michelle would consider, in case the cancer returned.
Michelle had chosen to give a family heirloom to her, even after being denied the opportunity to be her best friend’s maid of honor. She didn’t deserve such a good friend.
The box was exquisite, exotic. Decidedly un-Christian.
Victor would not approve.
Fuck Victor!
She gasped. The vulgarity of her thought shocked but delighted her at the same time. Yes. Fuck him and his stupid rules. He didn’t have to know. He never had to see it. She hid the box in a drawer filled with cloth scraps and spools of thread, where she knew Victor would never have any interest in looking.
She called Michelle to thank her for the beautiful gift but there was no answer. She tried again the next day. Still no answer. After a week with no luck contacting her friend, Jane assumed Michelle was working out of town. She would try again the next week.
Three weeks had passed with no answer at Michelle’s number when a letter arrived from Michelle’s mother. Jane crumpled to the floor in tears when she read the words Mrs. Dhaliwal had written.
The cancer had returned with a vengeance. Michelle had been given three months to live, six with treatment. Rather than suffer the brutality of radiation and chemotherapy, only to die in a hospital, she had taken her own life with an overdose of sleeping pills. She had left a suicide note explaining her motives, along with instructions that Jane be sent the enclosed envelope. It was another letter:
Hey, Janey,
Please don’t hate me. You know how I am. I do things on my own terms. If I have to die, I don’t want it to be emaciated and bald, in pain and puking my guts out. You know the saying – die young and leave a beautiful corpse. I’ve always known my life could come to this, and trust me, I’m ok with it. I’m sorry I didn’t call you to say goodbye. Please try to understand and forgive me. I will always be with you. As long as you have the Box of Dreams we will always be connected.
Remember, beauty is more than skin deep, my friend, and you are the most beautiful person I know.
Love you always,
Michelle
xoxo
* * *
Jane spent her days in a robotic routine of housework, gardening and frugal shopping excursions. She filled her empty hours window shopping and browsing through stores without buying anything because she wasn’t permitted to have anything frivolous. She could purchase groceries and household items and basic personal needs but nothing else. If she did not meticulously budget the allowance Victor gave her, there would be trouble.
Victor had been spending more time away from the house. His work hours seemed to stretch longer and longer. He offered no explanation and Jane didn’t ask for one. She didn’t care. The less she saw of him the better.
Jane spent more and more time in her sewing room when he was away. Sometimes she just sat and gazed at her secret box, remembering Michelle. She ran her fingers over the carved surface, trying to decipher the exotic designs. Sometimes she would find that hours had passed and all she had done was gaze at the box. Except for what Michelle had sent her, she owned no jewelry other than the simple wedding set which she never removed. She couldn’t wear Michelle’s jewelry. It had to remain in the box where Victor could never see it, lest he take it away.
Sometimes she just held the box and let her imagination wander, dreaming of the days before Victor, back when she was free and her life could have meant something. If only she could do it all over again. She would stay single. She would be a strong, independent woman who took shit from no man. She would wear makeup and pretty clothes and nobody would dare call her a whore.
One day, she decided to try on the jewelry, just for fun. Even if she could never leave her sewing room wearing it, she could at least see how it looked. One by one she slipped the rings on her fingers. There were four rings in total, and they looked absolutely stunning. Her wedding rings looked cheap and dull next to them. She clipped the choker around her neck and held her hair up, pretending it was styled into a fancy updo. Her ears had been pierced once, but she hadn’t worn earrings since before she met Victor. She didn’t even know if she had holes in her lobes anymore. A quick push, a twinge of pain and the earrings were through.
Gorgeous, dahling!
Jane smiled at her reflection in the mirror, blowing herself a kiss.
Jane reminisced back to her wedding day. If only she could have worn something this exquisite on her special day. If only that day had been special. She had looked so pretty – up until the moment Victor lifted the veil and made her cry. If only she could look that way every day of her life.
The box grew heavier in her lap.
She shook it.
Something rattled inside.
It had been empty a moment ago. She opened the lid.
Inside were the cosmetic products she had purchased for her wedding, six years earlier. She removed the objects from the box in awe. How could it be? She had thrown them in the garbage the same day, after Victor had raged at her and called it whore paint.
Did she dare? It would be hours before Victor returned home. She would have plenty of time to remove all traces of the makeup before he saw. She just wanted to see again… she just wanted to be pretty one more time.
This time, applying the makeup was easier. The eye makeup glided onto her skin, perfectly shaded, with just the right amount of light and dark everywhere. The mascara melded to her lashes with a quick stroke of the brush, without clumping or smearing onto her skin. The lipstick seemed to soak right into her lips, giving them a soft, natural pink blush.
Jane admired her face in the mirror.
Beautiful!
She lay back on the sofa in her sewing room, pretending she was an elegant model, posing for a photographer. She fell asleep clutching the box.
She woke to the sound of Victor coming in the door.
Shit!
Dinner was not ready and he would be livid.
Jane tore off the jewelry and shoved the box back in the drawer, then rushed upstairs before he could summon her.
Victor seemed distracted and he smelled of alcohol. He mumbled something about wanting a sandwich and stumbled off into the living room, where he fell asleep in front of the television.
Jane was shocked. What had happened to the raging, God-fearing man who took every opportunity to debase and degrade her?
She prepared a sandwich for him – roast beef piled high on light rye bread slathered with Dijon and placed it on the table beside his chair. Then she went to take a shower before bed. When she saw her reflection in the mirror, panic gripped her insides. She had forgotten the makeup! How could he not have seen it?
She scrubbed her face in the shower to remove all traces of the makeup. But when the steam cleared from the mirror, she saw to her horror that it was still there! Her face was flawlessly made up, as if she had just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. She tried rubbing lotion on her face, then more soap and water, but nothing removed the makeup. It seemed to be permanently tattooed into her skin.
Victor was going to have a fit!
Fuck Victor!
It was the same voice she had heard in her head the day she had gotten the box. She assumed it was her inner voice of rebellion; it was so unlike her own voice and she never used profanity.
Jane curled up in bed and slept soundly for the first time in years.
* * *
When she woke, Victor was gone, presumably to work. He hadn’t bothered to wake her to make him breakfast.
She caught sight of her face in the mirror as she was getting dressed. The makeup was still on her face, not a smudge, not a fade, as if freshly applied. Her lips were glossy and pink. Her normally pale skin had a healthy glow, as if she had been spending more time outdoors than usual. Her hair was perfect as well – brushed and styled as if by a professional, without a hair out of place.
How could this be?
Only movie stars woke up looking perfect. It never happened to real women.
Even her figure looked better – slimmer, trimmer and bustier.
And somehow taller.
How?
* * *
Back in her sewing room, Jane took the box from the drawer. She opened the lid. The jewelry was still there but the makeup was gone. She had put all of the makeup back into the box after applying it, but now it was gone. She felt less surprised to see it gone than she had been when it appeared.
Reflecting on the events of the previous day, she returned to the moments just before the makeup had appeared.
What had she been thinking about? That was easy – she had been remembering how pretty she had looked on her wedding day and wishing she could look that way forever.
And then the makeup had appeared in the box.
Like magic.
Would it work again?
What should she wish for?
A thought immediately came to mind and she pushed it away.
No!
She didn’t want to hurt Victor. She just wanted him to leave her alone.
I must keep this wish something small; something personal, and keep Victor out of it.
First, she put on all of the jewelry, just like she had the day before. Then she wished. Something small, something personal. Something that would go with her new look.
The box didn’t increase in weight this time, but when she shook it, it felt… fuller.
She opened the lid, then gasped.
She pulled the items out of the box, handling them with care even though she knew they weren’t as delicate as they looked. She knew even before she put them on that they would be a perfect fit.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror she used for fitting the clothing she sewed for herself. Victor did not let her spend money on clothing: she’d always made her own. Never, ever, would he have allowed her to have something as sexy and exotic as the lacy bra and panties she now wore. Black lace accented with fuchsia satin, the set rivaled anything she had seen in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. The French-cut panties barely covered her rear, allowing the cheeks to peek out saucily on each side. The push-up bra gave her cleavage she never even realized she had. She looked ravishing.
Just like a model.
She slipped her plain housedress over the lingerie and put the box back in the drawer, then proceeded to do her daily household chores. The feel of the lace between her legs awakened new sensations in her body. She managed to ignore it until the washing machine entered the spin cycle. Then she pressed her hips against the machine’s steel front and allowed the vibration to bring wave after wave of ecstasy through her body.
* * *
Victor arrived late again, and drunk again. He smelled of women’s perfume, but Jane didn’t care. He didn’t seem to notice anything different about her, even though her makeup had darkened during the course of the day. Her eyes smoldered with heavy eyeliner and black lashes so long they almost looked false. Her lipstick had deepened from the previous day’s soft pink to a bold fuchsia to match her new underwear.
Once again, she went to bed alone and woke to an empty house.
I could get used to this. She smiled to herself at the thought.
* * *
Back in the sewing room, Jane opened the box again after making her wish.
Once again, she stood before the mirror admiring her reflection, wearing newest acquisition: black stockings, a garter belt and a pair of shoes. The shoes were stunning – black patent leather pumps with scarlet soles and delicate rhinestone anklets and rows of rhinestones running up the back of the six-inch heels. She had seen shoes similar to these in a catalogue once, by a designer called Christian Louboutin.
She had never worn anything so sexy before and it made her feel giddy. The tall heels shaped her legs and made her ass look great. Teetering at such a dizzying height, she felt like a model on a runway, or a dancer on a stage.
She giggled, swaying and gyrating in front of the mirror.
Now all I need is a pole to swing around!
Her mood sobered at the thought. Be careful what you wish for.
She wondered what would happen if she was dressed that way when Victor came home. He hadn’t noticed the hair and makeup. Surely he would notice the lingerie and heels.
He would be furious. He would probably beat her and make her burn the sexy clothing. No, it would be best to hide it from him so he couldn’t spoil things.
She slipped her plain housedress over her secret and went about her daily chores.
* * *
Victor behaved as if Jane was invisible, which wasn’t a bad thing. Ignoring her meant he wasn’t abusing her, but for some reason it angered Jane. She had wanted him to leave her alone, but now that she had embraced her sexuality, she wanted to see his reaction. She no longer wanted to please him and no longer cared if she angered him. In fact, she welcomed his anger, because for the first time she felt like she had the strength to stand up to him. He moved around the house as though he were the only person present. Except for once stepping aside when she blocked his path, she would have sworn he was completely unaware of her existence. She went to bed alone and woke to an empty house. He must have fallen asleep in his chair or on the couch.
* * *
Jane sat in her sewing room, busy at work, dressed in her jewelry, lingerie and heels. A basket of laundry sat on the floor beside her chair. She picked up an item from the basket and went to work with her dressmaker scissors.
Snip! Snip!
The plain housedress fell to the floor in a pile of small fabric scraps.
She picked up the next plain, drab garment and shredded it in a likewise fashion.
No more.
She was a strong, sexy, independent woman and from that moment forward, no man would dictate what was appropriate attire for her. No longer would she be prevented from wearing pretty things; from looking like a woman.
Snip! Snip!
When her entire wardrobe was shredded, Jane picked up her ivory box.
She smiled when she felt the weight of the box increase.
She opened the lid.
Perfect!
She slipped into the dress and rushed to the mirror.
The transformation was complete, and it was breathtaking.
The slinky black gown dipped low in the front and even lower in the back, slipping open up the right side all the way to her hip. Jane felt like she should have a red carpet beneath her feet.
If Victor didn’t notice this, then surely he was blind.
* * *
She met him at the door, holding a glass of red wine in her hand. Jane was not allowed to drink alcohol; ordinarily, that would have been enough to earn her a slap in the face. She didn’t care. She wanted him to notice. Most of all, she wanted a reaction from him.
I dare him to touch me. I dare him to so much as raise his voice to me. He will be sorry.
She blocked his path when he opened the door.
“Hello darling,” she crooned, in her sexiest voice. Maybe all Victor needed was permission to be a bad boy. Maybe there was slim hope for their relationship after all.
He seemed to see her for the first time in weeks, his eyes traveling from her face to her feet and then back up again.
“What is this?” he asked, clearly annoyed.
“What does it look like?” she asked, running her tongue over her glossy fuchsia lips.
“It looks like somebody let a strumpet into my house.”
“Fuck you, Victor.”
His face flushed. “What? What did you say?”
Jane was no longer in control. Someone else was in charge of her body, and the words flowed from her lips like venom.
“Fuck you! You heard me, you lying, cheating hypocrite! You dare to call me a whore when you’re out fucking whores every night! I’m not taking your shit anymore! I’m finished with you!”
Victor’s hand swung back. “Fie on you, Jezebel! In the name of the Fa–”
Jane’s hand snapped up, catching his arm in midair.
“NO! No more. This stops here and now. You will never treat me like dirt again.”
“I treat you how you ask to be treated. You think you’re special, you ungrateful she-bitch? You’re nothing! You were nothing before you met me. I was merciful enough to marry you and take care of you, and what do I get in return? I’m stuck with a used-up old whore! Dried-up and barren like an old dead stick! You’re God’s punishment to me for saying, ‘I do’!”
“We’re through, Victor. I want a divorce.”
“You will rot in Hell before I break my sacred vows.”
“THOU SHALT NOT COMMIT ADULTERY!” she screamed in his face. “You’ve already broken more than just a meaningless marriage vow. We are finished!”
Victor pushed her against the wall, his booze-soaked breath wafting into her face.
“You are mine, bought and paid for. You will obey until death do us part.”
Jane shoved him out of her path, stalking away with the steely composure of a soap opera vixen. Before leaving the room, she turned to face him one last time and said,
“I wish I’d never met you. I wish you had never been born.”
* * *
Jane woke to an empty bed and an empty house the next morning.
Good riddance. Too bad it wasn’t permanent, she thought.
She strolled to the bathroom to shower, even though she still looked movie-star fresh. She examined her nude reflection, noting the improvements that had inexplicably taken place. Her pale, plump figure had transformed into a taut, lean, tan body. Her breasts were at least two cup sizes larger. Her mousy hair was darker, glossier.
Like Michelle’s.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
* * *
Victor didn’t come home that night. Jane wasn’t concerned; after all, they’d had the fight to end all fights the night before, so he probably needed some time to cool off. She slid between the sheets completely nude for the first time in her life and slept the sleep of the contented.
The next day, Jane baked cookies, cleaned the house and worked on some sewing projects – all while wearing nothing but her high-heeled shoes. She felt comfortable with her nudity and relished the delicious decadence of it. She didn’t get dressed when the time came for Victor to return home. She dared him to see her; dared him to say one disapproving word.
Victor didn’t return that night either.
Or the night after that.
After a week, Jane decided he’d had enough time to cool down. Enough silliness already. She called his office to speak to him.
The receptionist had never heard of him.
She must be someone new. Typical big corporation.
That night, she called his parents’ house. Odds were, he was staying with them if he hadn’t checked into a hotel.
Victor’s mother answered the phone.
“Hello, Mary, it’s Jane. Sorry to bother you, but is Victor there?”
There was a long silence on the other end.
“Excuse me? To WHOM did you want to speak?” Victor’s mother said.
“Victor. Your son. It’s Jane calling.”
“Who?”
“Jane. Your daughter-in-law.” Jane tried to hide the irritation in her voice. “Look, I know he’s angry with me, but I really need to speak with him if he’s there.”
“Is this some sort of joke?” Mary sounded angry.
For good reason, Jane thought. Her son is married to a rebellious, barren, Godless whore.
“Victor and I had an argument, and we really need to discuss it, now that he’s had a chance to cool off.”
“Victor? How do you know about Victor?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who are you?”
“I told you, I’m Victor’s wife, Jane.”
“This is not funny, young lady! Why would you do this? Victor could not possibly have a wife.”
“I don’t understand. I must have made some sort of mistake. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Please, will you tell me about Victor?”
Mary sighed. “I guess it won’t hurt. After all, it’s no secret,” she said. “It was the will of God for me not to have another child after Marlene. I understand that, but it didn’t make it any easier. I was six months pregnant when I lost my son. I don’t know how you could possibly know about him. We named him after his late grandfather before we laid him to rest. The miscarriage saved my life, because that was when they found the cancer. Cervical cancer. They removed it but it took a hysterectomy to get it all. It was God’s will that I live instead of my son, but even the will of the Lord is difficult to understand at times.”
Copyright © 2013 Mandy White
DysFictional 