Sweet Thyme Baby – 46


Copyright © 2012 by Drusilla Campbell. All Rights Reserved.


(Start at the Beginning of Sweet Thyme Baby)

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Sharon lay still on the carpet and listened with heightened senses to the sounds Lance made as he moved from one room to the next. She was perfectly calm, which surprised her. I should be screaming and pounding on the door, she thought. That’s the way a normal person would behave. From the kitchen she heard the freezer door open and shut and then the oven door slam. After a few minutes she smelled pizza and her stomach growled. She had eaten no dinner…


They had sat across the table from each other for the last time. She would never again share a menu with him in a restaurant or browse beside him at a Sunday lunch buffet. Those quiet cocoa and cookie nights, sitting up in bed, laughing or talking earnestly until after midnight, the anniversary dinners all dressed up and spending money they didn’t have, the tins of Christmas treats, the Thanksgiving turkey and Easter ham: there would be no more of these. Only a direct command from God-on-high could make Sharon prepare or eat another meal with Lance.


The room grew dark and Sharon scooted over to Hamish’s bed. She leaned against the frame. Lance came upstairs. The bedroom closet door rolled open, rolled shut. Downstairs again. The front door opened and slammed shut.


No more marriage. In spite of her rage and loathing, she lay on her back on Hamish’s little round rug and let the tears flow freely, not caring when they rolled back and pooled in the shell of her ear. She didn’t wipe them away, didn’t want to be distracted from what she felt.


“You can’t do this, you bastard!” She screamed and beat her heels into the hardwood floor. “You won’t get away with it.” She beat her heels until they hurt, jumped up and grabbed the door knob, turned it and pulled on it until her grip cramped. She looked out the window. Through the branches of the oak it was a long way down to the ground. She shoved the screen out with the toe of her sandal and let it fall fifteen, maybe twenty feet to the ground. Sitting on the sill, she swung her legs around and dangled them against the side of the house. She held her breath and leaned forward and caught the nearest oak branch in her arms.


Copyright © 2012 by Drusilla Campbell. All Rights Reserved.


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