(personally, I think author Tiffany Monique is in(da)vinciable) Literati! Tiffany Monique, who conjured up the ghost of William the shaker of spears for her first entry returns now with something slightly more acidic as her second entry into The First Annual Peggy Dobbs Write-of-Passage Contest. If you are joining us for the first time, details …
(personally, I think author Tiffany Monique is in(da)vinciable)
Literati! Tiffany Monique, who conjured up the ghost of William the shaker of spears for her first entry returns now with something slightly more acidic as her second entry into The First Annual Peggy Dobbs Write-of-Passage Contest.
If you are joining us for the first time, details of the contest, which accepts submissions no later than Thanksgiving (although I personally accept submission whenever I can get it) can be found on our home page just under the carousel.
750 to 1,000 words, but must include the prompt: I swear, it’s not too late. $500 prize to the winner!
The Heart has an Acid Trip
by Tiffany Monique
From: Chloe Kimber
Sent: Tuesday, October 29, 2013 3:18 AM
To: Clark Kimber
Subject: a small favor
I’ve been trying to tell you this for a while now. I think you’ve suspected as much, but you are always so good at avoiding serious subjects through tangents and jokes. As you have mentioned, I’ve not been feeling well lately. I can’t pretend it’s a cold or something I ate anymore.
I think my wings have atrophied from non-use or something. The bra straps sit right over my openings, and I’m trying unsuccessfully to pretend that 1) the pain is not excruciating and 2) the smell is not overpowering. You’ve been so busy with your promotion, I’ve tried to keep it together, but I don’t think I can anymore.
My back hurts. My legs hurt. I can’t sit. I can’t lie down. I am only comfortable standing or walking until my feet hurt. I have taken so much Ibuprofen my stomach is having issues. I need my mother’s saffron and rose hip tea, but I don’t know when we’ll be able to visit again. I’ve not told you because I thought it would pass.
Anyway, I’m tired more and more often these days. I’m finding it harder to breathe. Really. I can’t even find my way to taking a full breath without it becoming a sigh. Sending this email became a marathon. It took days to write. I’d put down a sentence. Then I’d need to go rest. I’d try to cook, try to eat, and end up on the couch staring at the area rug. Squares and swirls.
A bit too melodramatic for your morning coffee? I’m sorry baby.
A couple times I tried to extend my wings. I closed the blinds, sat in the bedroom and kept a glass of water and painkillers at the ready. The pain was unbearable, and the smell – beyond rotten.
It’s sweet the way you always act like you don’t notice all the candles and incense. But I’ve watched you in the mirror when you first walk in from work – that half a moment where you are honest. It disgusts you. It disgusts me too.
Mr. Stone came by last night. He always starts by asking how things are going. I never answer the question. I just stare at him, withholding nothing, but never speaking a word. What can he do? He just stares back. I am beginning to wonder if I should even answer the door anymore. If it weren’t for his always writing notes on his stupid clipboard, I’d have told him about my issues months ago. Something about the way he looks at me, scribbling things down – so smarmy and sweaty, like his hands whenever he shakes mine. Creepy. I’m waiting for him to mention the smell. Like you, he always pretends it’s not there. He’s better at keeping a poker face than you though. Last night was no different. Creepy poker face guy.
You’ve already been through so much bringing me here, but you’ve missed the second appointment. Mr. Stone has basically said that if you’re not at the next one, he’s going to have to report us. And I’m really no help at this point. When Mr. Stone comes over I’m so done I can’t even occupy his time, so he’s never here more than 15 minutes tops. I am a stone that moves around the condo. I can’t pretend to like you, or hate you, or even to miss you when you go for your work trips. I’m too busy finding a way to bear the pain without screaming. Don’t worry. You won’t have to rush back to keep me from harming myself. It did occur to me, but I just didn’t have the energy to feel sorry enough for myself to go through with it.
After he left I sprayed the place down with air freshener and opened the windows. Pulling up the blinds was exhausting enough but after dealing with Mr. Stone, I felt like it took forever. I sat down by the window. It was a beautiful night. For all the moonlight and stars, all I saw was steal gray and iron spikes. I can only guess what he’s writing.
Clinical depression. Apathy. Despair.
Yep – all that and cold coffee.
I’m rambling. I’ve been rambling. I’m trying to keep focused. Focusing is just something else that hurts, and I’m tired of hurting. I’m tired of the smell. I’m tired of this condo, Mr. Stone, all of it. I’m tired of not being me. I swear it’s not too late for me to come back to my old self, but I have to admit I’ve lost my way.
Can you come home early? Love you.
Literati! Tiffany Monique is a multi-talented artist, writer, and singer actress and has an amazing talent to tolerate my seventh grade humour. She was even gracious enough to sing at the Third Annual Editor-in-Chief Surprise Birthday Party at the ranch of author Victor Villasenor in Oceanside, California. Visit Tiffany on her blog sites listed below: