Scarlet and the Devil

Allow me to explain a little.

This post/short story in two parts is something I wrote over a year and a  half ago.

I first posted it on my previous blog. Yes I had a previous blog. Some of you know about it, a lot of you don’t. No need to dwell on that dark part of Fiery History. I am definitely not.

I mention that only to say that a lot of you have read this before, and probably twice. But over the last few months I have met and made a lot of new friends and followers here and I wanted it to be read by those people because it is something rare from me – this type of writing and story – and I haven’t written anything really like it since and probably won’t. It was a one off. I think that’s why I like it so much. Who knows. 

But this came from somewhere and wanted to be written, and though it is dark, I really do love it. 

There is a link to the second and final  part at the end. 

I hope you like it. And if this is your third time reading this then wow! I am duly impressed and flattered, lol.

Much Love,

Fiery

 

 

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 his hands around her throat
2. She doesn’t like being slammed against a wall by him , 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 her 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 chuckles 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.”

 

Part 2

 

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25 thoughts on “Scarlet and the Devil

Add yours

    1. It’s a mixture of both unfortunately. Or maybe fortunately depending on how you see certain bad experiences affecting your life.
      I had a lump in my throat re reading it before I posted it. I am sorry if I made you sad but thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts with me. Honestly. It means a lot ♡♡

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Thanks for sharing it again. I think for some processing this past, personal negativity in our lives makes us stronger and more aware. I remember having a very vivid dream where the room I was in was getting darker and darker. I got so terrified because I sensed this incredible evil or ugliness. Then, on a dime without it getting brighter, I had this incredible sense of joy and happiness come over me. I never saw a thing. I woke up crying. We often run away from darkness, but I learned that, as the Buddhist saying goes, we all have Mother Theresa and the devil in us. Salvation is in being aware of this because such takes down judgment in favor of observation. If we see all, we can truly have a better understanding of ourselves, and maybe do some good in this world despite our darker natures.

    That is why I chose to work with to population I do because when we despise others, we silence them and fill their life accounts with our fictions.

    We narrate the adversaries in or lives as monsters and devils, but they have good sides (it very rare to see pure evil, though it exists). The abuse in your work reminds me of my father and past religion. I was always told I was worthless and would “never mount to anything” and he abused others. He was so angry, but then I realized that he loved me, but his anger overran his potential goodness. His anger made him judge others and that anger and judgment made him blind and fearful in looking at himself. So, my father was the devil, but he did two things in 17 years that told me he loved me. Buried deep, I would get a glimpse of kindness in his eyes, and so is it with the Church. There are saints among a demon of an institution. Often, the bit of kindness we see, if we are blind and lack confidence in ourselves, is why we stay with someone that abuses us. Then we blame ourselves if he gets mad.

    No one deserves to be emotionally abused or hit. No one.

    I realized this at 17, when I kicked my father out of the house. He is dead now. I can love him and be angry at him at the same time. I can say I love him but cut him out of my life for over 12 years.

    I also wonder, and you do not have to answer this, of course, if your moving your blogs is similar to what I have gone through. I destroy almost all my creative work in part because I don’t have any confidence in my writing. I am a good writer but I think I suck. That is what abuse does to a person. But we have to stop fighting and let go. Write.
    You write disturbance beautifully.

    That matters.

    I often feel a prisoner of my own work in that I like what I write, but few others like it. It’s tough not being accepted, but I have come to realize that artistry does not yield to public tastes. It shows the human soul and the impact of this awful but wonderful and unique moment that we all share called life.

    Your work creates responses like the one above.

    Thanks for sharing.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thank you so much for sharing these thoughts with me. It’s very touching that my little story elicited such a heartfelt response.
      I read it a couple of times and I was wondering how to sum up what I thought.
      Firstly though, I am so sorry you’ve been through abuse. You are right no one deserves it. It’s hard to convince oneself of that but it is undeniable. Just know that whatever happened is part of who you are now and that’s exactly who you are meant to be.
      There just has to be balance in everything I think. It’s all around us everywhere and in everyone and so I do agree with that very much. We are always seeking balance and when it eludes us for too long we are loose threads in the wind. Until something or someone comes along for while to tie us up in a perfectly balanced bow.

      You write so well. You should know that. People will begin to be drawn to you because you write with truth and that is something everyone seeks.
      Thank you for the compliments on my writing. I appreciate it so much. I love it for how it heals me and it loves me back with poetry.

      Be well and thank you for reading me and for sharing.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. When I think of you and your writing, I always think of a poetical goddess divine; but this piece is one of the few non-poetry pieces that sticks in my head, too. Same with that Wolf one (I’m terrible for forgetting the name of it lol!). Glad to see your sharing it again and pleased as punch you still like it. 🔥♥️

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I’m thinking of two posts when you say the wolf one, lol. Hopefully you mean the one with the wolf puppy and not the one where I bare my bleeding heart for all the world to see, lol. Seriously thinking of deleting that post…

      Anyway darling. Thank you so much. You are sooooooooooooooo good to me with your praise. I am often speechless.
      Happy you remember this one. It’s one of my darkest ever but I like it so much in spite of that. Something in it gives me hope. I don’t know. Still early here!

      Much love honey. Thank you from the bottom of my pencil case(remember that song? Probably not, you’re just a little babby! )
      ❤️❤️❤️

      Liked by 1 person

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