Monday, 12 November 2012


            Hey there! This is something I wrote last year, where the focus was one of the seven deadly sins. I aimed to slide in each of them, some more subtly than others. Hopefully you'll enjoy it, I really loved writing it, and I'm still happy with how it turned out, so it must be one of my better ones, I guess. here it is, anyway.

Anger floods my arteries, the way it does when I see others enjoying their lives. Sometimes I wish I could join them, but I’ve known happiness, and it’s to be short lived. Please don’t think that I’m ‘depressed’ or ‘sad’, because I’m not, I’m angry. I’m full of hate, sometimes I think others can smell my anger; I see them flinch, maybe sidestep or simply just leave the setting, just to be away from me. Perhaps my rage spills from my pores and burns them, maybe it exudes my body and tastes foul. Maybe I don’t smell it or taste it because I’ve grown used to it, but make no mistake; I feel it.
I live in a small village where everyone knows everything about everybody else. What this means is, they make up crap about everybody else because they actually don’t know shit. Take Monica Wilson, she’ll reel off various details about Tasha Brady’s love life, which according to her, is so steamy it’d make a prostitute blush. In actual fact, Tasha Brady is only a few minutes away from a nunnery.
The way the village is adds to my anger; when I was a part of their clique, life was pretty stellar, those on the outside envied us, with our whispering and giggling, hiding our mouths behind our hands and glancing sideways at them, our eyes full of secrets about them which they didn’t know themselves. It was only when I made the discovery that they were saying things about me – things which were entirely untrue- that I felt it was time to leave them. Move on. Unfortunately, so did my husband. He’d been foolish enough to believe the rumours which had begun circulating, about my infidelities, other men coming to the house we’ve shared for fifteen years, late at night and leaving a few hours later, £50 lighter and looking tired.
I would have left the village then and there; gone away and made a new start, with a new home, new friends and a new husband, but that would have shown weakness, and I have my pride. So now I sit on the opposite side of the café/restaurant/pub/park which they are inhibiting and try to act as if I’m not listening to them cackle, pretend that I don’t care, as if it doesn’t hurt me. To be honest with you, if I really think about it, it doesn’t hurt me anymore, I sort of get a sick pleasure from watching their waistlines grow, watching their chins quiver as they stuff in yet more cream cakes. I’ve noticed their numbers dropping lately, although I shouldn’t be surprised, I’ve been spending all my time (when I’m not spying on them) turning their members against them. I say members, because I know for a definite fact that none of them are friends. They almost despise each other, yet cling to the fact, and the hope, that while they are in such a tight community no evil can come to them. I know they could not be more wrong in that line of thinking, Monica Wilson is as evil a bitch as ever there was, she makes the devil seem like someone you could have a quiet coffee with. Then again, Satan was said to be a fallen angel, and there is nothing angelic about Monica Wilson. Unless she wants gold or jewels, then she’s as lovely as a cool stream on a summer’s day.
She’d put their absence down to laziness at first, but I knew she was worried deep down, which meant some days, she’d have two cakes, and extra whipped cream on her caramel latte. I can’t wait to see her massive fat face quivering with a mixture of rage and fear when she sees all of her old friends sitting at my table, laughing openly, talking about her and all of her wrongdoings, or minor misdemeanours, which may or may not be true. There won’t be any tales of her sexual conquests though; the stories have to be believable.
Just as I’m about to pick up my jacket and leave the small, dimly lit café, my ex-husband entered, so I order another pot of tea and a lemon cupcake, coyly moving my chair a little to face where he is standing. He can see me; I undo one more button on my blouse and flirt with the waiter when he makes his return. This drives my ex-husband wild, I can see him from the corner of my eye, the tops of his ears are going scarlet; he doesn’t know whether to be envious of the attention I’m giving this other male, or if he would be justified in wading in and punching him square in the face. He does neither, but turns away in disgust and orders his usual; gin and tonic with ice and a twist of lime.
The waiter leaves my table and I pour some of the golden nectar into my cup, following it with one sugar and a splash of milk. He’s looking at me again, and so is Monica, they’re standing together and I can feel their eyes boring into me. I raise my eyes over the rim of my cup, one eye brow raised, a glint of malice in them.  They look away, flustered, and try to make it look as though they had been immersed in friendly conversation the whole time, this makes my blood boil too; they have no guts about them, they simply look away, or smile politely when they’ve been talking trash about a person only seconds before.
I leave my seat and take a walk over to them, I can see the conversation taking place, or rather, I know what it is they are saying:
‘Act normal!’
‘I was going to! You act normal!’
‘Shut up, Derek, she’s nearly here, stand up straight!’
‘Why should I? She’s not my mother, and neither are you, Monica’
‘Ohhh, well, really, Derek!’ there seemed to be a lot of scuffling between the pair as I entered their proximity, I could almost feel the tension; I relished it.
‘I do hope I’m not interrupting’ I said with a small smile.
‘No, no, Kate, no, we were just saying how well you’re looking!’ the term “bullshit” crossed my mind ‘such a lovely blouse, Kate, what is it?’
Versace, a gift’
‘From one of your many admirers?’
‘No. My divorce money.’
‘Oh! Well of course! And what would you call that colour? Such a lovely colour! Turquoise? Would you say turquoise, Derek?’ my husband shrugged in reply.
‘Peacock green, I believe Monica. How are your piles these days? Still sore?’ Monica’s eye bulged, she spluttered, my husband choked on his drink, he tried to pass it off as shock, which Monica believed, however I knew him well enough to know he was laughing. ‘Oh Monica, would you look at the time! I have to leave, I’m meeting some friends!’ I spun on my Dolce and Gabbana heels and left them standing there in a daze. Monica looked sick with both the feeling of betrayal at me revealing one of her many imperfections, but also the jealousy which is pouring out of her like vapour from a dry-ice machine. Derek looks like he wants to follow me, tell me he was wrong and sweep me up in his arms. I almost wish he would; then I could crush him, publicly. 

Thanks for reading, Laura