Short Story: Real Life

I have been posting stories from my childhood. Breaking from that pattern a bit, I have decided to share one of my more creative endeavours. This story was inspired by an article i read in the newspaper. Let me know what you think :).

Real Life

“I don’t know who you’ve become,” Marsilla thought, watching her husband’s face. They hadn’t been happy in a long time, but it seemed to get worse day by day. She watched him turn away, his expression dull and plastic, worn out with long unhappiness. They weren’t fighting. She supposed they ought to be fighting. Married people should have the passion to fight with each other. When had they become uncommunicative roommates?

The boys were so quiet these days too, like they were waiting for some violent storm to fall. It seemed so wrong. Boys should be loud and rambunctious, like puppies. Children have no business being grim and silent, she thought. Just because her marriage was failing was no reason for her children to suffer. There had to be a way to fix this. At least there ought to be a way to make her boys happy. To rewrite her life the way it ought to be.

Marsilla reflected that they never spent any time talking any more. She supposed that they weren’t talking to avoid the fighting, but she wondered if it was because they had nothing to say to each other anymore. All the fighting, screaming, crying was over. She felt hollowed out, like there was nothing left inside. She wondered if he felt the same. Staring into her bathroom mirror, she pulled her smile up from her toes. The boys, her boys, would be hungry. Even women with failing marriages needed to make lunch for their children.

He politely stepped aside as she entered the kitchen, a vacant look on his face. She thought that she saw the sheen of plastic on his cheek, so artificial was his smile. He looked like even emptier than she felt. She stopped to really look at him, meeting his eyes. He stood there, stiff and cold. A flash of cold sweat swept across her body as she turned. She shuddered, blinked, and stared down at her hands.

For a moment, she rested her weight against the counter and closed her eyes. She couldn’t hear the boys playing at the table anymore, and she tried to focus on her breathing. In, out, in, out, slower, slower. In that moment after she exhaled, she paused, realizing that she couldn’t hear anyone’s breathing but her own. The house was silent, the wind itself was holding its breath.

Shudders gripped her as she forced her head up, slowly opened her eyes. He was standing there. Hands pointed aimlessly. Eyes a fixed, painted blue. Hair molded on the top of his head. Staring flatly at the floor. A department store mannequin, and his two terribly still vinyl children lived in her house.