Trio No. 3 Create a post that mentions a dark night, your fridge, and tears
Nights are the worst. Darkness shrinks my world to the circle of light shining from the neighbor’s garage. Sometimes I see an animal trotting across the lawn, darkened in shadow. In summer the most prevalent noise is the deep thrumming sound of insects; night time is theirs, not ours.
I’m not a morning person, never was, so I’m up late almost every evening. I don’t like the switch away from daylight savings time. More time to think. I do like the early twilight that starts around 4pm, that time of purple shadows and cold breezes.
Cooking is a solace for me, a way to shape my world and create something of value. The fridge is starting to fill up with containers of soup and stews. There’s an apple pie cooling on the counter; I’ll have a piece of it later on, in the darkness, its sweetness providing a counterpoint to whatever grim crime show I’m watching on TV.
I thought that house arrest would be easy, a slap on the wrist, a way to evade real punishment. I was wrong. Sitting here, alone, day after day, I have to face what I did. The conditions are strict: I am allowed out once a week for 2 hours, with an escort. Some weeks I just go for a walk, other weeks I run errands. Most of what I need can be ordered online and delivered, but I still prefer to pick out vegetables and fruits myself.
The fridge is the guide to my life. Before all this happened, back when things were normal, its contents showed a busy and productive life. There was always at least one container of spoiled food shoved in the back, forgotten and alone. Restaurant leftovers were everywhere. These days, my fridge is spotless, gleaming inside and out. The shelves are stocked with fresh, homemade foods.
No almonds, of course. Too close in flavor to the arsenic-laced cake that resulted in my confinement. I thought I’d get away with it and that no one would notice. Now I weep bitter tears each night, as bitter as that cake. My problem was not adjusting the recipe. Had I added more sugar… well… my life might have been different.
I realize, now, what a fool I was. Our relationship was awful, but there were better avenues I should have pursued than the one I did. I hate to lose: that was the root of the problem. Filing for divorce, moving out; all the normal signs of a failed marriage, seemed undoable to me. I was too proud to admit my friends and family were right, that I’d married too soon, for the wrong reasons, to the wrong man. I couldn’t face up to letting go of my pride, to admitting I’d been wrong.
My plan was for a quick and simple death. My tears would be interpreted as those of a grieving widow, when in fact they would have been tears of joy. It didn’t work; he noticed and I was caught. I did get out of the marriage, but not the way I’d hoped.
And that is why I sit here, in the dark of night, with tears of grief and loss running down my face, and only the fridge for company.