The Latrine Door

Blogtober Short Story Entry 1

From this angle she has a full view of the latrine door, she watches in anticipation of his return, yet she knows that his body’s decomposing with the feces and filth that plagued her from the moment they met. Her delicate frame remains graceful, she’s a dancer, yet her face is full of proof that her unkind lover showed no mercy. White is the color she has chosen, a signal of hope that she will once again grace the stage with her talents, but she is fearful of the questions that will follow, so she continues to dance alone, in her attic, unseen. The evidence sits on the floor at her feet, she isn’t concerned, because her petite stature would never lead anyone to believe she would have the physical strength, much less the nerve. 

Not wanting to draw the attention of his mother, who consistently shows up unannounced with demands of dinner and questions her reasonings for being unbothered by his current mistress, she hasn’t reported him missing. As much as she would like to have her join her beloved son, she sits silently, showing only the emotions of a concerned mother of a baby with croup. It’s in this moment she thinks of her children, as she peers at that latrine, the same space she was forced to sleep on the night he questioned her fidelity at the sight of extra food from the church, and she challenged him about the lipstick on his cheek.That was always her punishment, her head forced down the seat of the latrine because he knew her biggest fear was falling in. As the putrid fumes of excrement overwhelm her, she no longer feels his grip on the back of her neck as she begins to weep. She can hear the children cry, they are on the front porch, barefoot, hugging each other as they watch, eyes wide and filled with terror. Her children,  girls who deserve a mother unbeaten, and a father who provides safety and unconditional love, her children who now sleep  peacefully and smile sweetly as they awake with the sun. Yes, she watches in fear, but she knows, this time, he will not return. 

She steps down from the attic, changes into her apron and begins to flour the counter and knead dough for biscuits, a ham steak fries slowly and the aroma of preserved pork and cloves fills the early morning air. A pot of coffee is on the stove, cream and a drop of sugar is how she likes it. As she waits for the biscuits to rise, she sips and savors the ability to enjoy a cup without scrambling from his screams. He will not return. 

Much love from the brown girl, exploring my dark side, sharing short stories for Blogtober! Keep writing, even if no one is reading ❤️

Nyri~The Unnerved Traveler

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