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Marianne Trapped
by Katerina Charisi
2016-07-03 10:33:20
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orl01_400Marianne was in the depressingly small bedroom she and Bradford shared since her early days in the manor. Counting the money she saved in a metallic bourbon bottle’s can that Brad had brought from Orleans their first Christmas, thinking about the new situation in the house.  She remembered Frances that first day when Bradford holding her hand introduced her in his parents (his palm was so sweaty and the grease that never got off his skin stuck in her palm, and she had to spend the whole first night in the manor trying to clean it off), being  strictly specific about “the boys are keeping their own rooms”, as she stared at her from top to toes with those rat eyes of hers, ignoring the fact that now they were two and she carried four suitcases, while Michael had the biggest room and lived alone.

Marianne had to squeeze her life under the old bed (she flatly refused to put a single thing of her own down there, in the creepy ground floor storage rooms next to the creepy old witch!) in that pathetic small room and now Michael had brought this girl in the manor and she had lost the big room for ever and she didn’t fit in this room anymore. God, I gotta get out of here!

She had 400 bucks. Not bad, she thought. Since Brad brought her in here, she told him that she wasn’t a plant, she was a woman, and a woman had needs, so she forced him to give her a part of his salary every month to spend as she wished, since she was fucking trapped in here. All these years, just in here, with his mother sticking her nose every -fucking -where, with his father barely sharing a word with her, with that old black-headed Sam the gardener who she knew he didn’t - he never liked her, AND with the creepy old witch of that grandma, who walked at nights murmuring creepy, creepy things. Fuck.

Footsteps. She quickly grabbed the money and put them back in the can, and then put it behind the other empty bourbon bottles on the shelf above the bed, bottles that she and Bradford had emptied the good old days, when they dreamed of their life together, and then having great, silent sex. Those days were gone. Now, Bradford worked his ass off every day with those damn cars, being sure that he would save enough money for that stupid house in Jacksonville that never seemed to finish, so they could just get the hell out of here, but only thing he managed is to come home every night a living corpse and drop dead on the bed.

When was the last time they even had sex? Too long. Too damn long.

She stuck her ear to the door, careful not to push the chair she had put under the door handle (none of them fucking doors locked!) and tried to listen. The door next to her room opened and closed. Jenny. You little bitch. You came in here, with your puppy brown eyes and the innocent look, the stupidity of the city girl who doesn’t know a shit going on in the countryside, and everyone finds you cute, fucking cute, even the way you call the damn swamp a lake.

orl02_400Marianne took a look out the window, up to the deep blue sky and the solid gray clouds, listened to the wind whistling through the poplars, thinking of all this and the things before, the things after and the overcoming night. Alone, again. Trapped, in here. Damn you, Brad!

Footsteps again and another open and close of the door next room. Then quiet talk. Michael. Sure thing they talked about what happened earlier. About the lipstick in the drawer. Oh, Michael, I promise you I didn’t- I never stole it! How could I? You have to believe me! She laughed. Bitch. I bet you shed a couple of tears too, always works with men.

She got back to bed and got to her knees and looked under. Shopping bags and shoe boxes, paper bags and suitcases, stuff she bought like maniac when Bradford took her with him to anywhere, things all brand new and never used. Where to? In the mud? She pulled a paper bag and opened it and grabbed a pack of chips. Carefully she opened it and then folded back the paper bag and pushed it back under the bed. She sat on the bed and ate. Then she heard the creaks of the other bed. She knew what they were doing. She fucking knew. They did what she hadn’t done for too long- and that drove her mad.

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