Fiction

Why were some people so very bothersome?

All that came out of her mouth was fiction. She had always been this way, but these last few years, she had certainly gotten worse. Everyone could see it. Isn’t it always the way.
“I have never been treated so badly by a shop assistant. Sooo rude! I asked to speak to the manager, and he rolled his eyes at me. At me! Rolled. His. Eyes. At. Me! I was FURIOUS! I pay their wages. If I stopped shopping there, would he be rolling his eyes at me then? No. I doubt it, and do you know why. He. Would. Be. Out. Of. A. Job. I’d like to see him roll his eyes at me then! I mean, so rude. There’s no need for that rudeness. I deserve polite customer service, or don’t they teach that these days. Incredible isn’t it, what they don’t teach. I mean, parents pay good money to have their children educated, and this is the end product? I bet his parents sent him to that posh school overlooking the harbour, and they’ve got a shop assistant for a son – I would be mortified. Come on, you pay all that money, and a shop assistant? Mind you, the teachers coming out of universities aren’t worth anything these days. Do you know they don’t even correct spelling or grammar. They. Don’t. Even. Correct. It. They say that it stifles the students’ creativity. Have you ever heard just bollocks in all your life? So, that’s the last time I’ll be shopping at that store in any case. I’ve a good mind to write to their CEO. You know I could really stir up trouble here.”

And on and on and on it went. We all saw her behaviour as funny in the early years, quirky even. Now, it was borderline madness. She certainly wasn’t living in our world, she lived in a fictional world where every person’s sole role was to torment her, to disrupt her day, all day and everyday –  shop assistants, taxi drivers, museum attendants, parking police, the dental nurse, receptionists, learner drivers, the old lady with the tartan shopping trolley, her neighbours, teachers, the call centre operators, her relatives and even us, her friends. We were all the subjects of her fury. A fictional fury that existed purely in her mind.

© Ms N Chatter 6 January 2011

Phrase

The children had gone to bed. The breeze had that hint of dampness to it that only a February evening can have and the mosquitoes had already begun to bite. They were sitting on the back porch, listening to the summer sounds.

“I don’t love you anymore,” his voice was barely above a whisper. This was not the phrase she was expecting to hear. The pain was instant. Is this how Harry Houdini felt after receiving that fatal punch? There was no more air in her lungs. They had stopped functioning. Her heartbeat was deafening in her ears. The colour had drained from her world and all was now blurry black and white.

“I haven’t loved you for a long time. I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m sorry.”

The feeling of weightlessness was instant. He should have uttered that phrase years ago. It had taken a toll on him, too. Living this hollow shell of a life they were both living. There was more to life that this. Their life was empty, soul-destroying. Maybe she would be able to see it too. As wrenching as it was to watch her comprehend this turn of events, he was now free.

She was in shock. He was expecting yelling, fighting, instead there was silence.  He helped her into bed. In the morning, he would pack some of his things. This silence, he wasn’t expecting this silence of hers. He would let her rest, then face whatever came his way in the morning.

©  5 January 2011