Where Does Your Shit Go When You Lose It?

“What are you doing here?”

I jumped out of my skin. I thought nobody was home. Obviously I was wrong. Obviously. “I just… uhm, hi!”

Turning his back on me he walked to the couch and let himself drop down in his usual man position of comfort half sitting and half laying down with his legs stretched out in front. At least he didn’t shove his hand down his pants. This time. “I want my keys back,” he said.

I took this as an affront. Not so much what he said, but the position he said it in. We always argued about this. How the way he plopped down slowly destroyed the couches. Just a quick glance confirmed my suspicion, all the furniture was destroyed from his 208-pound frame carelessly thrown here and there.

“Technically I still own this house. My house. Which is in my name.”

He snickered. He really snickered, with an inward snort sound. Did he really snicker at me? I can’t believe he snickered. At me. I dropped my bag on the floor, and started fixing the cushions on the furniture. Sure I could deal with the man who’d been the love of my life, and fix whatever needed fixing once and for all. But I opted for life’s priorities: objects and things over people.

“Stop it. YOU. DON’T. LIVE. HERE. ANYMORE.” he stabbed me with his words. “You made that very clear with, what, how many were there? Ten-twelve lawyer letters? I lost count after hearing the last shatters of my heart dropping to the floor.”

I exhaled. Rather loudly. Come to think of it, I did what Mother always did when I refused to finish the Brussel sprouts on my plate. With my foot I pushed the stubborn cushion deeper into the love seat. It refused to move. It was as though the lack of love in the seat, in our home, was rejecting and pushing everything out.

“Dorothyyyyy…” he nagged.

I stopped kicking and pushing, and melted into the love seat. “Stop calling me that. You know how-”

“You’ve become your Mother,” he interrupted me. “It’s only fitting that I call you Dorothyyyy.” He increased the nasal tone as he prolonged the ending of my mother’s name. Oh how he knew I hated it when he did that. And that’s when I lost it.

******

I read in a police report how I threw objects at him. I read my name, I read actions. I read horrible stuff. Despicable stuff. I have no recollection of any of that. Hence why I chose the words lost it. According to the police report – I am a monster.

They say skin is the largest human organ. Do you know how many stitches it takes to cover an entire body? I know. But I’m not telling. I’ve been told to not talk to anybody about the incident. That it may incriminate me further, blah blah blah.

So I started a journal. Forced into it. The journal.

Trust me, it was not my idea. It’s like eating Brussel sprouts. If to eat or not to eat Brussel sprouts could grant freedom in the eyes of teams of psycho-analysts and psycho-whatever they are who watch my every move… then eat all the Brussel sprouts in the world I would.

So there. Journal writing has begun, I can feel the monster creeping away slowly being replaced by internal rainbows.

Note to self: can they, the teams of psycho-whatevers, detect sarcasm in my journal?

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This is a writing prompt. It is entirely fictional. Other than the Brussel sprouts which I still despise. The prompt: Write a story that starts with the line “What are you doing here?”

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