Scarlet and the Devil

 

The house is silent.

Scarlet sits in the kitchen, mindlessly stirring a coffee. One shoulder bare from the slouching, oversized jumper she’s wearing, long hair up and out of the way except for a few stray strands of curls falling into her field of vision- which at the moment includes coffee, table, ashtray, tear soundlessly dripping into coffee cup.
Idly, hyptonised, she wipes another away.
The house is silent.

It’s warm, despite the raging, beautiful winter outside. A crow caws. Shut up , crow, she thinks.
Little one is at nursery.

He is at work. Long day today for him . Thank fuck.

An hour or so earlier, the house had not been silent. But the events that occurred did make her realise a couple of things. Which, to be fair, should have dawned on her a long time ago.
1. She doesn’t like hands around her throat
2. She doesn’t like being slammed against a wall , fighting tears back
3. Her heart rips to shreds when she looks at her beautiful boy staring up at her, pinned against the wall, being called a cunt and a liar and a bitch
4. She hates having to smile at her gorgeous boy while He is squeezing his hands around he throat telling her to look at what she’s doing to her son, is this what she wants him to remember, doesn’t she give a shit about her son, all she does is lie and fuck the family up.
5. She has had enough. But, so what? Or rather, now what? Now NOTHING

She traces her fingers over the bruises on her neck. Soon to be bruises. Now just silent pains, working their way to the surface. Wow. Metaphors, impressive.
She chuckled sardonically at her own wit.

Her thoughts flutter momentarily to a memory. A kiss, an embrace, a long, slow, hard …

She’s startled by a vibration. Text message.

“Can’t stop thinking of you. I want to make you happy. And other things…”

Her heart races a little. Heavy, hot feelings spread…guilt settles in. The message isn’t from Him. If He ever found out… A chill passes over her despite the fervent heat of the house.

Tap, tap her nails on the table

Stir, stir the coffee

Think , think , think about His words and deeds. About his, get the fuck up off the floor and look after your son, his stop fucking fake crying, no one’s done anything to you, I am the one suffering here. His it’s all about you isn’t it, you prick. His hateful stare. His impending apology followed by his quick qualifier followed by a well, if you hadn’t done all the shit you’ve done, things wouldn’t have gone back to this, rationalisation.

She sighs a trembling, cracking sigh.
Takes her cup to the sink.

A bubble of anxiety begins to form in the pit of her abyss (stomach). Her hands begin to tremble from the flood of adrenaline.

She opens the cupboard and begins to rummage through biscuits and crackers and baby snacks and nuts and what the fuck is all this ?
Where is it
Where is it
Where is it
Heart is racing. Another scorching tear falls. She absently in all senses, wipes it away.

Fucking alcoholic bitch. So fucking useless you can’t even be a good mum. You’re worse than yours.

That one hurt. But His words always cut and sliced. He knew that. She knew he knew. But. Trapped. Attached. Welded. Held in a nightmare of nothingness, frozen, with her precious boy her tether to this world.

Crisp packets in the floor now…there it fucking is.
She reaches to the back of the cupboard inside an old cornflakes box.
The sight of the Bottle sickens, excites, and trembles her being.
She touches the back of her head as she stares at the full, beckoning, whore of a bottle and remembers another thing she hates. Being pushed to the ground and cowering away from a potential hit to the face. But no. Not the face anymore. Too much explaining. And we can’t blame it on the dog anymore , that beautiful spirit friend of hers died last year.
So just lots of head fucking, then. Okay. As long as we’re clear

She sits back down at the table. Opens the bottle. It was a Christmas present, whiskey that no one particularly likes and so she hid it. Triggers are all around and she knew there were more to come. Like this morning.

She takes a long, burning, trance inducing swig.
Okay.. clarity coming back. Some lost part of herself coming back…
Anger, rage, sadness, gladness of this alone time to dine on her sorrows and drink and think and clink a cheers to herself in the mirror, that sees her but hides her and abides her in this life that she is clinging to, singing to, lullabies and midnight cries and guilt…so much fucking guilt. So much… Too much..
Another tear drips of its own accord, she didn’t tell it to.

She stands up, bottle in hand and walks around the kitchen.. another hot, warm, wet gulp and she feels herself waking up. Her trance turning into a dance of truth and self and feelings on the shelf of memories of lost chances, glances and glimpses of paths untravelled, of a life unravelled at the seams, which
she
is
sure
she deserves. Right? Otherwise why had it been this way?
She dodges toys and Legos and other remnants of her mummy life as she walks around the kitchen… to the window. I’ll tidy it up later she thinks. Then chuckles. Toys strewn like little miniature demons ready to puncture her sole (or perhaps her soul?)
Be gone tiny demons she says aloud, and laughs.

Another drink as she stares out of the window, rage building up, fear quelling, she dwelling on the morning and on countless mornings of fear and panic and nights of rage and screaming and apologies of empty promises of I’m changings of I love yous of where the fuck are you going to go anyway? Nowhere, exactly. Of good memories that fill her with guilt. Fill HER with guilt! I mean!
She laughs aloud and takes another swig. Half way down the bottle (rabbit hole) and her truth is making its way out.
She slams her hands on the hard, oak table and screams, “He’s a CUNT!!! ”
Wild tears now streaming down her face, pouring , reddening her skin and tearing at her fragments.
“A fucking cunt! I can’t take it anymore!!! I don’t fucking deserve this! God? Right god? Why are you not fucking LISTENING to me!!!”
Wracking, sobbing, trembling tears, shaking her shoulders and body bent over the table.

She works her way down the bottle. How did this feel SO good and hurt so much?
Her inhibitions falling, dripping to the floor.
“My life gone! On you! And you fucking blame ME? ” she rages.
“You , you, you do that to me in front of my baby and you blame me?!” Crying, clawing, panting , ranting…drinking more…
“I’ve made mistakes but..you…you..”she can’t even finish talking to her fucking self .
She’s almost finished the bottle. Snow falls fast and heavy outside, a testament to her state of mind that she can’t enjoy it, barely registers it’s happening.

She sits again, head in hands.
She is beautiful but doesn’t know it.

Her mind is gorgeous, she is unaware.
Her soul…

She takes her hair down and lets it fall and stroke her shoulders. Years of feeling ugly, useless, worthless, pathetic, too thin, too fat, too chatty too quiet, too flirty, not enough, too dirty, not enough, put down, manipulated, beaten, bruised battered and tattered at the seams of her unravelling sanity, profanity pervasive, her capacity to love, evasive, her self worth abrasive and the bruised, used, slashed, gashed and cut , broken, stamped on remnants of her youth… gone
“Fucking gone!!!” She screams

Oh but this levelling that’s flooding her body now…this peace woven with threads of hot rage that’s overtaking her body and mind…she is tasting every particle, every drop and letting it swim through the darkness. She didn’t mean to have darkness. She didn’t.

“Why…” she sobs. “Can anyone tell me why?” more trembling tears.

She finishes the bottle. She is barely existing in this sliver of time.

She steadies herself on the table. Closes her eyes as more unspoken tears escape.

“My poor baby…” she weeps. “Don’t let him remember any of this, please! Don’t let him be like me…” Tears, sobs, torrents of sorrow

“Don’t let him be like Him…”

 

She’s in between worlds now. Half here, half gone. Half lucid, half deceased, or diseased? Desist? Words flow into a pool, a cauldron of concocted realities.

She thinks about…what she did. The guilt of it . The sensuality of those kisses…the words he whispered in her ear…the want, the need of him, the scent of him…the inevitable…guilt.

Maybe she does deserve this.

But… things He did. She couldn’t forget. Or was it forgive? Who knows.

Her neck vaguely reminded her of the mist that this morning had now turned into in her mind.

 

Toilet. Yes. Go to the loo, wash your face.

She breathes in, out and steadily walks herself up the stairs. God, why was it so fucking hot in here today?

Whiskey, darling. Remember? Oh yes, she answers herself and laughs a dry laugh. A remnant tear falls. She doesn’t notice.

She stands in front of the bathroom mirror and splashes water on her face.

Better, she thinks as she blindly reaches to the towel rack to dry her face.

She looks at herself.

You are such a stupid, worthless bitch , you know that? She thinks.

More tears. She opens the mirrored cabinet and takes out her antidepressants. Like these are going to do any good. Closes the cabinet.

The Devil is standing behind her.

His face familiar like the faces of everyone you hate and love all in one expression.

She’s trembling.

“Time to talk about our deal, Scarlet.”

His voice, smooth, seductive and terrifying to her very cells.

“Yes…” She manages to whisper. Tears… a deluge of destruction down her visage.

The house is silent.

“That’s my girl.”

 

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51 thoughts on “Scarlet and the Devil

Add yours

    1. It’s actually a rewrite of Chloe and her story. But I lost it and I loved it so much I wanted to rewrite it and then made a few little changes.
      It’s just a story, C!!! Don’t panic!!!!

      Liked by 1 person

  1. This is emotional and delightful (the story telling, not so much the content)…it’s haunting and so damn real…

    also, what’s a stronger word than WANKER!?! Because what.an. (fill in appropriately chosen word and multiple it by 1000). 😀

    You’ve portrayed Scarlet so well. The complexes of her inner mind…it’s all very tangible. The reader cannot help but to sympathize with her…

    There’s gonna be more, right?!? πŸ˜‡πŸ˜‡πŸ˜‡

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh…what a torrent of compliments coming from you! I desperately wanted you to like it because you are a master story weaver.
      Thank you so much, K.
      This is a rewrite actually, but I prefer this one. Realism combined with chills was my aim .
      Only one word better than wanker and Scarlet uses it in capitals!

      Thank you, gorgeous. I always feel a little bit more complete when you’ve read me πŸŒΈπŸ’ŒπŸ˜˜πŸ’šπŸ–€πŸŒΈπŸ’›πŸ’™

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I thought it was either a rewrite or it was a different take on it. All the same, my words haven’t changed! 😌 but thank you for thinking me a master story weaver *blushes* I just do it because I love it. That’s the powerful beauty behind it.
        You’re so very welcome, M! Remember, you DO deserve it.
        And how could I forget? Of course Scarlet used all the best words πŸ˜‚

        Liked by 1 person

      1. Are YOU telling her she’s welcome on MY blog?????

        Slightly inappropriate!!!!

        Mel, obviously you’re welcome. I didn’t need to tell you that. 😊

        Like

      2. Yes.
        Listen dear.
        You need to stop over analysing my posts. I mean in the sense that you think they are ALL LITERALLY about me . Obviously, they come from me and my emotions and my mind and sometimes life but you can’t keep doing this every time I write something dark. Can you not just enjoy my writing? Enjoying the language, the feelings and interpret the poetry in a way that’s personal to you? Poetry can mean 100 different things to 100 different people. I know you care a lot but I can’t keep thinking about if you will or will not begin asking me questions and justifications every time I write something. This blog is my safe haven . I say what I want in the way I want and sometimes it’s literal, often it’s just abstract, drawing in a myriad of emotions and experiences. I’m only telling you this because I feel like you spend more time trying to connect the dots or put some kind of imaginary pieces together about my life rather than just ENJOYING the blog. I mean, you are the first to read and comment, even the first to respond to my readers, before me! So enjoy it instead of trying to work out details about my life.
        I care about you and appreciate you but this constant questioning is really a little uncomfortable.
        I hope you understand and I hope you can just enjoy my words and relate them to yourself, to life, beauty, pain, love and anything else you want to in between!
        Have a great weekend honey πŸ˜‰

        Like

    1. Whoo hoo! I made the list again!!!! It’s like being up for an Oscar …or a Tony…yeah, a Tony…
      *daydreams about soaking up applause on Broadway…*

      Like

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