?

Log in

No account? Create an account

Author's Studio

Example for Applicants

Example for Applicants

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
Allison Argent - huntress
Author: atomic_eyes
Title: Friday's
Prompt: [First Sentence] She hated Friday's with every fiber of her being.
Word Count: 1,298
Rating: PG 13
Warnings: Adult Themes (death, suicide, depression)




She hated Friday’s with every fiber of her being. When she was a small child it was her favorite day, her parents would scoop her up from wherever they’d left her for the day – a friends, the nanny’s, the park – and they’d go get ice cream and drive in her father’s silly little convertible with the top down singing to music she didn’t even begin to understand. She remembers every morning, before the concept of time really swept in and took hold, she’d tug on her nanny’s skirt and look up at her with doe eyes and ask “Is it Friday yet?”. Obviously the answer was usually no, but everyday she asked anyway and her nanny was patient with her; far to wise for the little girls sake.

Friday’s had always been the one day that she was guaranteed to spend with her parents. It was the day out of the whole week when they put aside clients and work and spent time with her.

The divorce was final on a Friday. She was fourteen and swimming in her best friends pool when they showed up to get her. She didn’t bother to change, just pulled on her jean shorts quickly and towel dried her hair not even bothering to say good bye to her friend or thank her parents for having her over. It was Friday, this was her day. The ride to the little ice cream stand on the beach was silent, free of the music she was use to and the playful banter her parents had seemingly perfected.

“Shelley, sweetie, we have something to tell you,” her mother had said while handing her an ice cream cone. She barely remembers the exact conversation or the fact that she’d thrown a temper tantrum like the spoiled little girl that they’d made her into. All she remembers is the cool sticky feeling of the ice cream melting all over her hand as she cried salty bitter sweet tears.

After that Friday’s still were her days, only they started alternating. Who got to spend what Friday with her? It got to be a chore, trying to remember that these were two people who just suddenly didn’t love each other anymore. She knew, even back then, that it wasn’t really like that – things had probably been happening for a long time and she’d just been ignorant to the signs. But in her world, that little place where she was allowed to be angry at them, she thought they just didn’t try.

Her mother died on a Friday. She was eighteen when it happened, she was feeling particularly rebellious that day and had blown her mother off citing some trivial need to spend time with a boyfriend she didn’t have. In reality she was just angry in general. The four years since her parents had split had done little to alleviate her anger with them. So she’d blown her mother off and when she’d gotten home she found her, laying there on the couch with a near empty bottle of vodka and a completely empty bottle of sleeping pills.

She’d stared for at least an hour, her concept of time from then on out was decidedly different than it had ever been before. The shrill ringing of the phone had broken her out of her reverie, she’d walked calmly over to the phone, laying next to her dead mothers hand, and answered it.

“Matthews Residence,” like it was any normal day.

It had been a telemarketer and she’d kindly told them that she was perfectly happy with her long distance and hung up the phone. All she could do was stare at the glassy eyes of her mother – they were still open – and shake just enough for her to notice the movement. She’d tentatively reached out, her mother’s skin was pale and cold and at the first touch of her finger tips the tears began to slide down her cheek.

She dialed her father’s number with her hands shaking and when he answered all she could say was “Daddy, I need you,” before she dissolved into complete hysterics. She didn’t know how long she’d sat there, back against the antique coffee table before her father rushed into his old house – where he no longer lived, her mother no longer lived, mommy was dead – and took one look at the scene before taking over the situation with a cool and collected manner that his clients would have been proud of.

Friday’s where still her day. Somehow she managed, with a lot of therapy and anti-psychotic medications, to go back to being the happy go lucky girl who got ice cream with her father on Fridays until he got too busy to spend an entire day devoted to only his daughter.

She miscarried on a Friday. She was twenty six and a promising up and coming photographer. She’d been shooting an ad for something or other, it wasn’t really important in the scheme of things, when she’d just doubled over in pain and passed out. When she’d woken up in the hospital the small but noticeable bulge in her belly was gone and her husband held her cool hand in his with a look of utter devastation covering his handsome features.

She remembered the way the doctor had looked at her when he entered the room and told her that her pregnancy had unforeseen complications and due to the damage to her uterus she would never be able to have children. She remembered the exact pain those words caused inside her, the way her heart felt like it was literally breaking and how in those few words her world had been destroyed.

After that she avoided Fridays. She hated Fridays, they mocked her, took away the most precious moments in her life and she wasn’t going to give them power anymore. So on Friday’s she didn’t get out of bed, she’d pull her comforter over her head when her husband opened up the curtains and while he was in the shower she’d pop another sleeping pill in her mouth so she could sleep away the day. Every other day she’d get up, get in the shower and go to work; but not on a Friday. Never Friday.

Her husband left her on a Friday. She was twenty eight and he pulled the comforter off her head and looked at her with undisguised pity. He told her that she couldn’t sleep walk through life and unless she could get up and live her life with him he was going to leave. She just looked at him and choked out, “But it’s Friday.”

She hadn’t noticed that his bags had already been packed.

She decided to kill herself on a Friday. It was only right wasn’t it? She couldn’t stand the sight of herself anymore. Three years after her husband left, five after her baby died, twelve since her mother had done it. She hated Friday’s with every fiber of her being and somehow she'd let them control her life.

She was found, glassy eyes open on the couch with a near empty bottle of vodka on the table and an empty bottle of sleeping pills clutched in her cold hand, on a Friday. An entire week after she’d done it. Her father had found her, he’d decided that he’d missed their talks over ice cream and convertible rides, he was finally ready to be the father to her that he’d never been able to be; except for on Fridays.

Her funeral was on a Monday; the sky opened up and roared its anger and loss onto the mourning cluster of people standing around her freshly dug grave.

“She hated Friday’s,” her father sobbed in the wake of an unimpressive eulogy. “She hated them.”
Powered by LiveJournal.com