Doors slamming. Whispers, giggles, secrets. All behind locked doors, not for me to hear. Walking down this desolate hallway, only trying to reach that window in the distance. The curtains flutter from the breeze, revealing the fields beyond the window. If only I could reach that point but the hallway grows longer with each step. My footfalls are only echoes here, not proclamations of life.
Next.
Feet pounding on the frosty ground. Dogs barking in the distance. Breath protruding from my mouth like smoke. Run, run faster, or you’ll never make it. I know it’s true but I just can’t go faster. The dogs grow louder, I hear their shouts. I trip. I fall. I taste winter firsthand. Get up. Get up. Get up. Faster, you have to run, faster, faster, faster. They have guns. You fool.
Next.
“Ring around the rosy.. A pocket full of posy.. Achoo! Achoo! We all fall down.”
Next.
I’m walking down the aisle. In all the rehearsals, the organ was, or maybe just seemed, in tune. Now it just seems to grind through the silence of the audience. Audience; so now this is a performance, not part of real life. And when he looks like a boy on stilts with makeup to make him look like a man, then it really does become some sort of play. The organ comes to a halt, like a bagpiper does when he’s run out of air. Thank God that’s over.

There’s the fateful question, the question I always dreamed of answering. But now I’m here, and how do I answer it? Apparently, you just say, “I do.” But how you say it, that’s what makes all the difference. Say it with loving; perhaps. Say it with indifference; definitely not. Say it with no emotion whatsoever; sounds perfect. But this world knows you can’t ever take emotion out of your voice; it just comes out as it feels. All I have to do is say it and I don’t understand why I haven’t. They’re staring at me, both him and the pastor. Or priest? I never pay attention to the important things. Now my kids will ask me, “Was it a priest that said you were married?” and I won’t bloody know the answer. I feel the sweat prickling on the back of my neck and down into my dress. I loved this dress, now it just feels like it’s been plastered onto my body. I used to love this wedding, until it was a performance. And I still haven’t answered; I’m screwing up the play myself. It’s not the organ’s fault anymore.. the audience will ask for their money back, maybe throw a few vegetables while they’re at it. Of course, I’ll have a good reason to hate my dress. I’ll just have to make sure that a tomato hits it. Or if that’s not classic enough, maybe someone will run in at the last moment and say, “I protest!” Ha, you’re really fooling yourself girl.
Come on! Just say it. What’s so hard about saying two words. I do. That’s it. Say it, say it, say it, say it, say it, say it, say it, say-
“I do.”
I hear the joint sigh of relief of the audience, not-yet-husband and the pastor/priest/dressed up actor. In any other circumstance I would tell them all to shut up and sit on their hands.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Now, how the hell am I supposed to do this right?
Never mind, already happened. Didn’t even have to try on that one. Hope it looked good, though.

“Are you going to give me breakfast or not? Lookit what you’ve done; you’ve burned the bloody bacon so well, it’s crumbling on its own accord!”
Sigh, imagining again. I’ll have to stop doing that, someday. However, it’s pretty disappointing that the wedding actually proceeded that way. I just think too much.
“It’s alright; I’ll just make you some more.”
“And you talk about me wasting money!”
“Can we not start an argument this morning?”
I place his overcooked bacon on his plate.
He stares at me.
I stare at him.
“I’m going to work.”
“OK. Don’t forget your lunch on the way out.”

The warm sun shines on my skin through the window. I love sitting here, on the windowsill, just watching. Watching the cars, birds, people; all of them busy, going somewhere, whether it’s important or just another useless trip. Each and every one of them at least has a purpose. Maybe I do too, just sitting here watching. I could be cleaning, preparing for dinner, maybe even shopping. But what’s the point? I used to do that, and he never noticed otherwise.
But me.. I have to note everything he does. Even the flowers he brings home for me every single Friday. Red roses, every single Friday, for the past seven years. I don’t even need a calendar anymore. I don’t even have to expect them, I just know they’ll be there when he comes home. He probably has an arrangement where they’re taken to his work every Friday and he just brings them home. Maybe they’re roses meant for his office. You’d think maybe he’d bring them on a different day just to surprise me. Or maybe bring a different colour, or possibly even, a different flower. I hate roses.
I love children. Why doesn’t he bring those home every Friday?

I have a girl. My very own. And not his, though he would prefer to think so. And not the milkman’s either. Haha. Every single morning, I go through this. I have a girl that isn’t his. It’s the one thing I have against him. The one thing that I can hold inside myself. The one thing that keeps me happy.

I have a boy. Another year gone, nothing to remember from it. There are phases in your life that close with an event. Throughout all the years of schooling, the graduation closes it off; the graduation is what you remember the most. After driving lessons, it’s the driving test that you remember. Getting fired from a job closes off a phase of your life, for sure. After two years, it closed with the wedding. I remember nothing from those two years, just the wedding, as horrible as it was. And this year comfortably ends with a boy. All mine.

I have a girl. I have a boy. Another morning I tell myself this. They had better be mine anyways, after going through all that work and pain to get them out.
“Is my breakfast ready? I had better not be late for work. You’ve had me late once already this month. These things get held against me, you know.”
“You should know the children come first. They leave before you do.”
They’re mine. Not his.
“Maybe you should get them up earlier then.”
They’re mine. Not his.
“Or maybe you could make your own breakfast.”
Oh, damn. That was the wrong thing to say. Time to block it out. Time to block out the yelling, the slamming, the shaking, the screams, the cries, the hitting, things that shouldn’t be said, things that aren’t meant to be heard. Time to block it out. Time to sleep and wake up in a million years when nobody else is alive.

So we moved. To another house, a bigger one. More for me to clean, but more space to get away from him. I have a girl. I have a boy. They’re not his. I like this house. It has stairs.

“How are you doing these days?”
“Oh.. I’m fine. I like this house far more than the last.”
“Well it is a beautiful house. I wish we had enough money to move to that part of town.”
“Yeah..”
“…Well…I’ll talk to you later, OK?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you around.”
Shopping is so awkward. People ask so many questions. And they look at you with these eyes that seem to know more than they should. They always seem to know things and they look at me with pity and sympathy and I can’t ever understand why they do because I’ve never told them anything. And they look at you with these eyes that are searching for hidden meanings in your words. And they look at you with these eyes that definitely know more than they should.
Shopping is like the roses. I always buy the same things. It’s always the same thing for dinner. Always the same thing for lunch. Always the same thing for breakfast. First rule: Don’t waste money. Second rule: Buy what he likes. Third rule: It doesn’t matter what you like or what the kids like. Refer to the first and second rules. I hate how the cashiers look at you with those eyes that know more than they should.
Bacon, eggs, milk, pasta, cheese.. Always the same things. Then cashier. Just like a system. I would be a perfect robot. Pass by the clothing section.. then by the jewelry.. then pass the- Wait. That necklace.. it’s beautiful. I know I’m attracting attention to myself, standing here staring at it. I have a girl. I have a boy. I want a necklace.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
“How…how much is that?”
“This one here? It’s $899.”
“Oh.. really.. I can’t buy that. But it’s really beautiful.”
“Yes.. I agree. Anyways, that’s too bad that you can’t purchase it. Maybe come back another day?”
“Do you think.. do you think you could just let me borrow it for a day?”
“I.. uh.. no, I’m sorry…”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. That’s too bad then. Have a nice day then.”

The kids aren’t home yet. I told him about the necklace. And now it’s time to block him out. I wish the kids were home. He leaves the bedroom and stands at the top of the stairs staring downwards. I come out and stand behind him. I don’t know why he’s just standing there. I don’t know why he just won’t buy me the necklace. All these years of buying me roses amounts to more than the necklace costs. I don’t know why I can’t ever buy things for myself or the kids. I don’t know why we’ve had to remain on the same diet for the past decade. I don’t know why it’s so often I have to block him out. I don’t know why the kids aren’t his, when they should be. I don’t know why, at this moment I feel so angry. It’s not his fault. Maybe it is.
I push him. I don’t know why I did that.
I watch him tumble, all the way to the bottom of the stairs.
I walk slowly down, to where he lies. I hear somebody screaming, but I can’t figure out who it is. Oh, it’s him. I’m just blocking him out.
The door opens and the kids walk in. I have a girl. I have a boy. They’re mine. All mine.
“Come on kids. Lets go watch TV.”
We turn on a comedy, about a husband and wife, and their two kids. We laugh at the family’s life, how deprived they are of love. We scoff at the husband’s silliness of buying his wife roses every Friday. We feel sorry for the wife when she can’t have the necklace. We watch the wife go crazy and push her husband down the stairs, and we laugh at that too. But we laugh the hardest when the husband’s screams from the TV and the husband at the bottom of our stairs synchronize.
I wish our family life could have been that funny.

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