Unedited excerpt Knave of Hearts

I am busy polishing the silver. Trying to bake a decent store-bought quiche for guests, waiting for the caterer to call back and explain in terms I can relay to my husband, gently, as to WHY they have canceled last minute. I am waiting for the cruelty avalanche so I polish faster. The phone rings and my heart stops. He's calling to check on the caterer. DAMN! I have to answer by the third ring or else.




Second ring and I am trying to wipe the tarnish remover away, but my wrist hurts. I lunge upwards. I have to answer by the third ring! Silver smashes to the floor as I rise. A piece of the prized late Mother-in-law silver, the creamer pitcher smashes the Italian tile and bounces. I watch, mortified not able to breathe. Lunging for the phone as the creamer handle snaps off. I MUST answer by the THIRD RING!




The sugar-bowl follows suit, the handle of the top, cracking. It was his mother's prize possession! The phone goes quiet, my soul turns to ice. I look at the silver set and wince. Every crystal topper knob lies shattered, like me, like my life. Like my poor late brother's head. NO!




I beg the phone to still be ringing. I survey the damage, each frail, filigree handle has snapped at its source. Like my reality. Like my family tree this morning. This morning, in a way I lost a brother and a son simultaneously.




A dead tea set, a dead marriage, a dead brother, a long dead mother-in-law, a long dead heart. A murdered ring-tone and all that remains as I lay writhing on the floor, weeping over a destroyed material possession that I've never cared one wit about, is an immaterial fear of all that is, a regret and longing for what was, and a black tunnel of what will be. The nothing that accompanies the meeting with eternity that will mercifully come before the evening ends.




I read somewhere that the longest walk is the thirteen steps a condemned man walks to the gallows pole. That is entirely incorrect. Thirteen steps are easy if the torture in life was hellish enough. The longest walk consists of a thousand years that are condensed into the moments that make up one hour of the abusive marriage. That's because you walk those 13 steps fifty times a minute, but you never feel the noose. No freedom, no release, no merciful God or even Hell's flames to be traded for the much worse existence you will suffer in the next half hour. 13 steps, torture, repeat. 13 steps. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.




I look to the golden Crucifix that hangs above the mantle. I hear over and over, “Eloij, eloij, (Why doest Thou desert me?)” And I scream in a blasphemous rage at the thickening, empty ringtone-free silence the most sacrilegious thing I can muster for the God that chose to ignore my martyrdom and deliver me from this earthly persecution as He damn well promised!




“JACK! I am praying you'll save me, one more time. AMEN! AMEN YOU HOLY BASTARD!”






and as the silence of selling my soul seems to build... the phone rings. ***