Tag Archives: couple

Domesticated

He shoved her roughly onto the kitchen table, causing dishes to crash to the floor and condiments to dig into her arched back. He mounted her just as roughly, his body crushing hers until his arms found a place on either side of her head and a knee wedged itself between her thighs.

Effectively, she was trapped in by a wall of such strong masculinity. In one strong pull; he ripped her blouse open, the buttons stinging her face like rubber bullets. With a few more tugs, the bright silk garment lay crumpled and torn, discarded on the floor.

His movements were harsh and spastic as he roamed around her body. Hard hands bruising tender flesh. She struggled involuntarily under the crushing weight of his body.

Impatience causes him to grab a nearby knife to cut off any and all remaining articles of clothing. Her lacy black bra fell first, followed shortly by her cotton skirt. Her nylons proved to be a challenge. He nicked her half a dozen times before finally getting them off.

After what seemed like ages but was, in reality, a couple of minutes, she was completely exposed. By now his desire was threatening to rip his front open and she could feel the terrible pressure and heat on her thigh.

Three seconds and his garment were undone. Another three seconds and he was inside… An outcry of pain escaped her lips as he quickened the pace even further. His grin was wicked, the fear left her eyes. Her cries were that of pleasure now.

They climaxed soon after and he dismounted her abruptly. She went upstairs, her head held high to get dressed and freshen up before heading back to work.

Leaving her unemployed husband home to clean up his mess.


I found this excerpt in my old documents. I don’t remember writing it and I have no idea how it gets there. I received tons of materials from friends and acquaintances I long lost track of their origins. They are from a file labeled “strangers” I don’t know what that means. Anyway, I find that it fits the prompt quite well. Literally.

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S/he said

Pause whatever you’re doing, and ask the person nearest you what they’re thinking about (call someone if you have to). Write a post based on it.

We just came from walking in the country side (which was a mistake because at thirty degrees celsius, it is still too hot to do some hiking. No wonder I have dizzy spells from too much sun and too much effort) and instead of lying down or disinfecting my scratches from nettles, hawthorn and other hedges, or opening all the windows and doors to have some fresh air (the house feels like an oven) I took my big camera from where I am hiding it – inside the closet between the stash of multi-colored bath towels which is normally reserve for guests but it was seven years since I bought them and they never seen guests since then –  and started taking shots after shots of my Asian lilies and other flowers like Rudbeckia (coneflower, sun flowers, black-eyed susan etc) because I forgot to take pictures of them last night. Yes, night. Colors are more pronounced during twilight, no? and you know when it’s twilight in the summer? Yes, in the night.

Then, I decided I will check today’s Daily Prompt while drinking ice-cold lemon (sparkling) water and after reading it, I looked around and asked the person next to me what he was thinking about  and  he said:  “I think I’m going to clean the windows.”

“That’s it???”  I asked in disbelief. He answered: “Not really. I also thinking I will never understand you. You’re a puzzle to me. But I don’t want to voice that one out.”

And I thought: clever. I continue typing and he proceeded with cleaning the windows… 

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Dearest

Dearest,

I do not know what to say….lately it seems we do not have much time for each other. I believe it is my fault as much as yours or perhaps circumstances have also a hand in the matter. What I’m trying to say is that I miss you greatly. I want to feel connected to you. I hate to think that our relationship might already be showing flaws here and there at this early stage. If that is the case, how would it be after a couple of years? I don’t dare to imagine!

You could perhaps understand my concern regarding this matter if like me, you also allowed yourself to dwell in the future from time to time. Perhaps it is my restless nature that always brings me to this idea. Indeed you are probably right when you mentioned about my familiarity to a certain situation which makes me worrisome. Dare I say I’m scared? I’ve been told before that if certain things keep happening for so long, you kind of expect it.

Why must I feel afraid always? Why I cannot be just like the most of us? Must I always believe that I am no worthy of any love, or kindness? Not even compassion? How I long to be ordinary for those are the most happy of beings.

Was I born in a certain era, I am truly convinced that they would burn me at the stake by just being different. Truly as you have witnessed dozens of times already that indeed I have this gift (or curse) of foretelling and I do possessed uncommon behaviour, which only once witnessed in  asylums. As if that is not enough, it seems that I was born in the wrong family as well. But that notion I don’t wish to further entertain and if I could I want to forget about it altogether. Ah,the kind of thoughts I’m having in my head sometimes!

Dearest, I don’t know if I will ever feel worthy of you for you are such a fine example of a perfect gentleman. Though you have your shortcomings and weaknesses like any man and from time to time you inclined to test my patience but it does not make you none the less capable and attractive in my eyes.

I for one will always think of you as sweet and forever hold you in highest regards against your contemporaries whom I cannot find a single decent word in my limited vocabulary to describe their general conduct, so I am confined to be silent about it.

I would like very much to believe that I am indeed lucky that you bestowed upon me your undivided attention and lavish me with all the comforts you can afford. How I wish I could be certain about your devotion as well. Though you never give me reasons to think otherwise and yet still I get this ungrounded feeling from time to time that you might…perhaps…oh, it is my doubtful nature again which always make me ill to the core of my bones.

Even though it is surely nothing but just some fragments of my imagination, to me it is real enough to keep me from being merry and robbing me of my night rest. For I am truly certain that one of these glorious days, you will wake up and find me a tiresome nobody not worth a backward glance, and you will discover the truth I keep telling you that I am truly not wonderful nor special and there are some fine young lasses out there who are more suited to you and your needs.

Am I out of my mind? Perhaps! Am I fortunate? No doubt! For I am aware that so many maiden will give their treasured belongings and indeed their virtues just to imagine themselves in my position. And that Sir, I am certain!

So, do forgive me from time to time if I am being silly and not agreeable for it is only my nerves which I am sure would settle the moment I carry your name.

 

Will remain your affectionate,

Wife-to-be

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People

I make a futile attempt to hold Ems hand but she pulls it away. That little subtle rejection pierces my heart. There was a time that it came naturally between us, holding hands. Whenever we were together, our fingers sought each other and automatically entwined. How long ago it was that things between us happened spontaneously ? I can’t remember anymore. I miss those times… those precious moments when we could talk freely without fear of hurting our already fragile emotional state. If only…

I grasp her hand once more, this time I refuse to let go even though she keeps tugging at it, after a while she stops trying.  How people become so self-absorbed with their own personal grief they utterly forget that there is still a world outside their sorrow? I can hardly believe it was happening to me, to Ems, to us. We supposed to lean on one another in the moment like this, instead we are drifting apart and the gap between us keeps growing each day it becomes so huge I’m beginning to realize that not only the distance is becoming impossible to bridge but it is also threatening to swallow us up. I wish we can go back to the past; everything would be easier then…

Turning around the corner of our favorite park where I proposed to her over by the bridge; I notice an old woman sitting on a bench, she’s knitting a small red sweater. All of a sudden I see a small body of a little boy tumbling over by the impact of the car when I hit him,  his broken body lying there on the street wearing his best-loved red sweater, the one his grandma knitted and gave to him for Christmas. My little boy! My precious son is dead and I killed him! For the first time in months, I let go of my emotion and cried…

She didn’t find it a good idea to go for a walk; but he insisted. It’s so typical of him to make up excuses to avoid confrontation. He rather drags her in public to be sure there will never be a fight. He knows she will not dare to make a scene when there are people around. All she wanted is to talk. Really talk, not the beating-around-the-bushes conversation he always seem to prefer. It’s been a year now since the accident, the grieving have to be over, they have to accept their loss and go on with their lives.

There are some facts that they have to face. She knows he blames her for not keeping an eye on their son, for forgetting to close the gate, for talking on the phone for too long not realizing the boy was old enough to be curious and venture outside. On her part, she blames him for the deed itself, taking away her only source of pride and happiness. She had a difficult pregnancy and her son’s birth left her with a torn cervix. Other complications ensured the fact that she will never bear children anymore. That boy was her only chance.

She is willing to talk about it, air their hidden grievances towards each other. Acceptance is the ultimate key in healing process. They cannot pretend nothing happened and move on. If their marriage is to survive, they need to talk, urgently. Now, seeing him crying his heart out in public is too much for her to bear. She turns around and walks away, leaving him behind.

Gertrude sees them coming from a distance, her first thought was: what a beautiful couple. They reminds her of Bill and herself in the beginning of their marriage, before everything turned sour. Now he’s dead and she’s happy, happier than she had ever been in the last years of their relationship.

She notices the man tried to hold the woman’s hand, had witness when she tried to pull it away and thought: “Oh, dear…” maybe she had drawn her conclusion too hastily. What it is with young couple nowadays? They divorce and separate in a blink of an eye mostly for petty reasons. They ought to talk to each other more often and learn to really listen. But who is she to talk about that matter, she is no expert. Her own marriage was not one can call picture-perfect, but they stayed together for 35 years; that must account for something.

She directs her eyes on the small red sweater she’s knitting, Wendy would love this one. Red is her favorite color. Being with her grand-daughter is one thing she always looks forward to. That little girl brings joy to her heart and energized her aging soul; she can’t help but smile every time her memory conjures up her image. Pity, Bill is not here to witness her happiness. Then again, maybe it’s for the better.

They are closer now, the couple. She watches them from under her lids, pretending to be engrossed with her work. She sees two sets of feet stop before her. She hears the man’s outburst of crying. She looks up and catches the woman’s back fleeing, leaving the man crumpled in heap on the wet grass. Slowly, she stretches her old limbs and stands up, putting her knitting back inside her tote bag. She walks to the grieving man on the ground and put her hand on his shoulder saying: “There, there…”

Gertrude stays with the man, holding his rocking, sobbing form against her bosom. After a while, he stops crying and looks at her. She smiles at him and says: “Want to join me on the bench and tell me all about it?”

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Give And Take

She looks at him from the corner of her eye. She could see he’s wearing his familiar expression, the one which reminds her of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She could be wrong of course but that’s how she feels.

“Sorry.” He mumbled, arranging the sheets around his naked body.

“Again?”  She said raising one eyebrow.

“What you want me to say?”

“Do I have to hold your hands during this conversation as well? I’m tired of you, of everything; I really am.”

“I said sorry already, what more I can do?” Then he starts crying. She feels anger rising from the pit of her stomach to her throat threatening to suffocate her.

“That’s fucking emotional blackmail!   For once, act like a man for crying out loud! You cannot say sorry every time you messed up. It’s the easiest thing to do, apologize and do it all over again. How can you forgive someone for stepping on your toes when the whole time he’s saying sorry he’s standing on it?”

“What you want me to do?”

“Divorce me.”

“Never!”

She’s expecting the retort. How many times they have been in this situation? She lost counts already. Always the same discussion, always the same outcome.

“Look, I’ve given you enough time and space; I cannot spend the rest of my life re-educating and bringing you up. I’m not your mother.”

“I’m learning. Ten years ago I didn’t even know I have a problem.”

“Ten years ago? Do you have an idea how long that is? How much did it cost me? You cannot ask someone to live and breathe for you, it’s unfair. Contrary to your belief, the world does not evolve around you. I cannot sit back and wait for you to grow up. I have my own life to think about. Whatever left of it.”

“I’m trying. Can’t you see that?”

You will never get it, do you? Trying to make you understand is like chewing bricks. You’re learning alright, like a kid that have to be told to get out of the bed, he will sit there daze waiting for the next command. Today he will learn to swing his legs out the bed, tomorrow, he will be told to plant his feet on the floor, the next day to walk to the door, the day after the next to put his hand around the door knob. By the time you’re out of the goddamn room I will be dead and buried!”

“You’re only angry because it didn’t work today.” He said sulking. Suddenly, she has enough and jumps out of the bed.

“How dare you to say that!” If I will be angry every time that doesn’t work, then I will spend most of my days being angry. You know it’s more than that. It didn’t work today or any other time it didn’t work because with you, in every aspect, it’s your way or the highway. Most people would not believe that because you seem submissive. If they only know… no, it doesn’t work every time you don’t get what you want. Is it because I suggested another position, instead of that boring one you always preferred? Not everyone is fond of that long and slow approach leading to nowhere. Some of us want the real thing, not a school-boy-first-time experience sort of thing. How old are you anyway?”

“You mean you never like it? It works sometimes, doesn’t it? But I guess those are not counted.”

“If what you implying is sometimes you manage to be there for few seconds without moving, I guess it works then. But unlike you I can compare, and believe you me, there is a vast difference. Your general attitude towards romance and especially about this not to mention about everything else in between is… how I could put it… like going to a restaurant with a purpose of__ what else? Eating of course! You will sit there half-dazed reading the menu to me thinking by doing so I could automatically taste the food and satisfy my hunger. What an idea!”

“I give you cards, I wrote poem for you. Didn’t you see them? I hang it in the toilet so you can read them first thing in the morning. But it’s not enough I know. I cannot row a boat; I can’t strum a guitar or sing, play basketball or stay awake the whole night. I cannot do those things!” he starts crying again, banging his head against the headboard. Once he resolved to this manner, she often doesn’t know if she’s going to pity him or be mad.

She’s about to open her mouth to say more but she decided not to. It is quite evident with his retort/outburst whenever she mentions initiative and passion (and growing up) that they are not speaking the same language, or not in the same wave length; she doubt if they are even sharing the same planet. He would always be in tears and scandalized whenever they have this situation. He even threatened to jump over a bridge the last time they’ve quarreled. She gathers her clothes and heads out the door.

“If you ever leave me, I will spend the rest of my days trying to get you back!” He shouted.

She looks at him dumbfounded; frantically (hopelessly) searching for words to make him realize that all that she wants is: for him to put (his) theories into practice. As simple as that.

But as simple as it may seem, that concept he cannot and will never grasp. Experience taught her that. She grabs the car key and her purse from the dressing table and slams the door on her way out. Time to play Evita. Another suitcase in another hall…

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In Disguise

If she’d seen it in a crystal ball, she never would have believed what happened next.

The ice formed early, that November. But  today is not snowing for a change but pouring. Rain water trickles unnoticed, into a minuscule fissure in the foundation. She can see it from the bedroom window looking down. She even imagines hearing the sound it makes. Had it always been there? She didn’t notice. Not in the beginning at least. Only the other day when she was in the garden and attending to that over grown rose bushes that was planted along the foundation of the house did she see it. She must tell it to Bill. There is a certain possibility that he is already aware of the matter. So perceptive is Bill about the things which concerned him directly. But where is he?

Lately, he’s coming and going are becoming more unpredictable. Not that his whereabouts interests her a great deal these days; she ceased caring where he might be a long time ago. She can’t stand the long nights of waiting, the worrying, and the looks he gives her when she dare asks. After a while, she gotten used to going to bed alone, mostly with sleeping pills and a glass of brandy, it works better that way. Only the silence she can barely stand. The emptiness of the house and the unspoken animosity between them are wearisome burdens.

Yesterday she went for a walk and had lunch with Emma. She didn’t dare to mention the apartment she recently purchased (from her own money) and her plan of moving there, alone. She cannot bear confrontation at this early stage. She would deal with whatever may come later. For now she has to remain decisive and strong. She will need it. 

The sound of the doorbell pulls her out of her reverie. Who might that be? She suddenly conscious of her own naked body clad only in thin morning gown. She looks at the clock on her bedside table. She never realized it is that late already! How long she had been standing there looking at that rain water, lost in her thoughts?

The continuing loud chimes of the doorbell send her running down the stairs, pulling the garment tightly around her body as if for protection, she hurries to see her unexpected visitor.  Two police officers are standing on her steps when she opens the door.  Confusion seizes her and she stammers questions unintelligibly, one after the other.

“Ma’am, are you Mrs. Bill____?”  One of the two interrupted her.

“What?  Why?”

“There was an accident early this morning. The melting ice Ma’am… really dangerous. His car must have slipped, turned over and fell into the ravine.  We’ve been calling you all morning, no answer. Passed by earlier but nobody home. We need you to ID him. Ma’am, are you okay?”

She collapses onto the floor, crying hysterically…

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