Decadence of the dream
Decadence of the dream
The ring of the
telephone cuts across the heavy silence, and I wonder briefly whether it's that
woman again. It can't be though, can it? Surely she possesses some shred of
self-pride that might prevent her from intruding on us at this hour? I leave
the telephone to ring itself into silence though; the thought of facing anyone
nauseates me horribly and right now, I was desperate to wallow in my own little
bubble of self-pity. Under the sullen watch of the moon, my skin is like parchment;
waxen and white. I’m utterly depleted, so physically and emotionally exhausted
that I can’t help but feel an insane urge to burst into tears.
The clothes lie in
an untouched heap on the floor and I know I ought to be packing them for
tomorrow, but instead I just sit there, waging a silent battle with my
conscience. I didn’t tell him. I just
couldn’t. Tom had come home with his shoulders slumped in despair, the kind of
despair which often rendered one’s features into that of a contained stillness.
I had gathered he must’ve passed the accident scene on his way home and this
thought had filled me with a terror so profound I knew that I’d never be able
to tell him the truth. My great, big, hulking brute of a husband would never
know that it had been I, not dear Jay who had delivered the deathblow.
In the second it
had happened, Jay’s face had been etched with fear; an expression that I had
never seen on his face before. I knew somehow though, that his panic hadn’t
been for the woman we’d just run over; it had been for the fact that I’d been
the driver. He had quietly taken wheel from me then, and along with it all the
blame. Even now as I sit at home, hidden from the public eye, I’m still unable
to suppress the liberating sense of relief.
-just a little segment of the rough draft i made for my Great gatsby assessment before
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