Decadence of the dream

by - 3:05 PM


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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