The Breaking of the Thread
She lay in bed looking up
at the yellow and brown leaves dancing and fluttering round the Velux window;
scraping and tapping at the glass in a frenzied rhythm – she lazily examined
the repetitive insistence of the patterns finally deciding she’d have to give
in to their demands and leave the enveloping warmth of the bed. She sipped at the cooling coffee on the
bedside table - Adam must have got up early this morning she thought, as she
moved through her morning routine with alliterative ease; after coffee, came
cat, kids, coats and then the school run.
It was always a frustrating hour, the boys didn’t want to get up, they
didn’t want to have breakfast and they certainly didn’t want to help things run
smoothly. This morning seemed worse than
usual. She stubbed her toe hard on a
kitchen chair which had been untidily pulled out and she realized that Adam had
forgotten to set the dishwasher off the night before and the dirty plates
leered at her from their stained slots.
‘Darling, come on!’ she
shouted at her youngest son, ‘it really is far too late to worry about your
homework now; you should have done it last night’. She felt the anxiety and stress begin to
weave itself into a tighter and tighter knot making her gasp faintly. Why did it all have to be so difficult?
The leather interior of the
amulet red Audi TT felt icy cold to her touch; her nails looked like drops of
blood against the black leather of the steering wheel. Pulling into the petrol station after the
drop off, she gazed unseeing at the other cars and their occupants, her mind
full of the drudgery of the day that faced her; buying a birthday present for
Adam’s sister; taking the cat to the vet’s for its annual jabs and the
relentless duties of washing, clearing up and cooking before everyone returned
in the evening. She grinned wryly to
herself; it was like being the set designer for The Importance of Being Ernest, beautifully preparing the props
only to have the stage invaded by the cast of Lord of the Rings, with none of the dramatic resolution.
She looked blankly at the
man behind the counter as he handed back her credit card. ‘Sorry love, it’s been declined.’
A blush darted across her
cheeks and her skin grew hot and itchy under the thick coat. She scrabbled about in her purse – her voice
sounded almost pleading. ‘Here, try this one’.
Again it was rejected. The urge to escape rose higher. Her back stung with the sharp pricks of
interest from the eyes of those queuing behind her. In the end the cashier accepted a cheque, his
look of sympathy and understanding shaming and infuriating her even
further. Her mind was resilient and
hostile but her hand shook as she held the pen, finding it hard to hold the
smooth shaft in her sweaty grip.
We hope you enjoy this collaboration from Abby Fermont and Belinda Hunt
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