It’s Friday and I have some fiction for you this afternoon; an original piece by me, so be classy and don’t steal it. Have a great weekend. Enjoy!
Like peanut butter stuck to the roof of her mouth, so was that Chesterton quote stuck to roof of her mind; “Art, like morality, consists of drawing the line somewhere.”
She had to draw the line somewhere, she knew this, but where? Would it be drawn when he got out of the car and walked her to her stoop? Would it be drawn after he’s entered her apartment and a night-cap had been served? Should it be drawn long before either of those choices were birthed? The version of her mum living in her head said she shouldn’t even be going out with someone she met online.
“What if he’s a rapist?”
“What if he’s only after your money?”
“What if he ties you up, beats you, and leaves you for dead in your bed?”
It was this particular brand of crazy she’d lived with all her life. Doom and gloom projections, that haunted her waking hours as well as her sleep. She was afraid, of course, because she had been taught to be afraid. Trained. Beaten with emotional whips if she had not adhered to momma’s rules when living under her roof.
“I’m out of there now,” she said, to herself. “She doesn’t rule my life anymore.” It was true. Her mother didn’t rule over her anymore. Hadn’t for a long time. Had been dead and in the grave for three years now, so why, oh why, couldn’t she get past all this paranoia?
Her cell vibrated. That would be him. What would she say? How brave did she feel tonight? Was she ready to roll the dice once more? Only time would tell the tale. Even she didn’t know what she would do next. That’s what came of being tormented for years. Under her thumb. Unable to move without checking with her first. Again, with the voices of yesteryear. She was sick of it. Really, sick of it.