It’s All in the Eyes

Last night, I could hear them fighting again.

Why she lets him control her like that, I will never understand.

I push lightly at the door, just to check.

It is locked again.

Poor girl.

She never leaves except when she takes her car for groceries.

I had burst in once, but I was no match for him.

Perhaps her emotional scars kept her there, but she chided me for interfering.

I think I made it worse.

Today, I could hear her screams.

I stifle my outburst as I hear the scuffling within.

I close my mind and my ears and slowly slink back to my place.

The morning came, and I roused, slipping over to her place.

The door was open, but there was no one home.

Her perfume filled the air.

The keys… her keys… still hung on the hook.

I slipped back to my place, my breath shallow and quick, as I gazed out the window. She normally parked right to the side of my place, almost directly in front of my window.

Her car was there.

If her car was here… her keys… then what did he do?

Her door rattled. My heart racing, I rushed out.

Oh my… she was safe… my heart… she can see it in my eyes.

She looked at me, her face stoic and unbreakable—until she broke…

The grin spread across her face as she reached down and scratched behind my ears. “Who’s a good boy!?”

Similar Posts

  • The Art of Teaching

    Dressed in leather and gilded in gold bling, the teacher sat on the edge of the desk. Not the usual uptight teacher, her intricate tattoos proudly illustrated a deep, reverent understanding of the importance of knowledge. The concepts presented were of a depth that few could succinctly follow, let alone completely comprehend. Running up her…

  • Going Nowhere

    The book lay open on the desk, the cigarette in the ashtray still trailing smoke. The soft murmur of the television barely covered the incessant ticking that filled the room with audible angst. The darkened room filled with a flickering puddle of light from the movie being played. The oasis of light from the desk…

  • Sarah’s Butterfly

    A yellow butterfly flutters and lands on the dedication sign for the forest green bench. Mother sits on the bench, handkerchief in hand, wiping the tears from her eyes. For weeks, Mother has been angry at me, ignoring me almost completely. Mother looks over and mutters my name. “Sarah.” I look up, grinning. Maybe she…

  • The Bawdy Bowler

    We had just left the bowling alley when a distraction by my friend allowed me to slip away from him. Before he could stop me, I was already down the alley and rounding the corner. A strong breeze at my back—a breath of tantalizing freedom. Twice I was able to evade… staying just beyond the…

  • Layer by Layer

    The canvas set.Every stroke vivid.Every line drawn, nuanced.Painting with deep, resonant colors.The tones shift, the lighting rewrought.Building in layers upon layers, each subject meticulously captured.Standing back, we look again before changing direction.Every subtlety intentional.The canvas complete, the critics arise. In painted prose—a novel.

  • It’s About Time

    “This damn clock—why are they always so difficult when he is around?” The old, haggard clockmaker hunches over a bench. The man in the dark cloak sits in the corner, waiting. The clockmaker struggles with this piece. He must get it working. It is no longer a matter of payment, but one of pride. He…