usmcsis's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- writer's block writing exercise from the writer's block by jason rekulak.
My overnight bag is packed and waiting by the front door downstairs. I take a last look around my bedroom to make sure I haven�t forgotten some mundane item that will prove necessary during my trip to Florida. I�ll only be gone for a day and a half; spending tonight in a cheap chain motor lodge off the highway, but you never know what you might need. Or worse, what you might want. I see nothing that needs to be added to the already bulging bag downstairs. I turn out the light and close the bedroom door. I stand in the hallway for a moment listening to the silence around me. I close my eyes and I hear his voice in my head. His footsteps on the stairs as he makes his way up, calling for me. �Marjorie! Marjorie where are you? I have good news!� The door to my office stands open and his body fills the doorway. Intent on the computer screen before me, I haven�t heard his calls. His sudden appearance startles me. �There you are. I have good news.� His face is flushed, eyes wide; he�s out of breath from rushing into the house and up the stairs. �I got it! I got it Marjorie! I got the job!� I smiled and jumped up from my chair, rushing to hug him. He opens his arms and steps forward to meet me, gathering me up in his strong embrace. �Congratulations Steve. I knew you�d get it.� �It�s going to be a new life for us Marjorie. A chance for us to start over fresh.� �I can�t wait.� I said to him. I can see it as if it were yesterday. I walk down the hall towards my office. I stand in the doorway where he stood that day, so happy, so full of excitement. He was so sure that this job, this move to another town in another state, was going to make all the difference for us. And he was right. I close the door to my office and head downstairs. I take one last glance around the living room and go to the front door. Gathering my bag, I try to push the ghost voice out of my head and focus on the journey to come. I close the door behind me and stand on my porch for just a moment, smelling the fresh mown grass from my neighbors yard, the slight scent of rain in the air. The neighborhood kids are riding their bikes in circles in the cul-de-sac and their voices ring out and echo off the house fronts. Ten minutes later I am on I-95 headed south. Headed toward the end. I have my favorite CD in and I turn the radio up loud in an attempt to tune out my thoughts. I don�t want to hear the memories in my head. I can�t stand the way they call to me, begging me to come play. They call out to me to pick them up, dust them off and run with them. Before I know it, I�m doing just that. We decided not to move to Florida right away. We decided that it would be easier in the long run if I stayed in our house in South Carolina and finished out my school year so there would be no interruption to my students. Steve rented a small studio apartment just a few blocks from his new office and drove home on weekends. It was hard, I missed him and we couldn�t afford to run up a huge long distance bill. I looked forward to every Friday evening with great anticipation and dreaded every Sunday afternoon. Steve was happy at his new job. He made new friends, new contacts and told me great stories about So and So that wanted him to play golf next week and Whatshisname that told him about a great little hole in the wall just down from his building that served the best pizza he�d ever eaten and had pitchers of beer for a buck on Thursdays. It all changed on the Friday Steve didn�t come home. It was a clear night, no rain, no fog, nothing to impede his progress north, home to me. Or so I thought. By eleven I had called his apartment a dozen times, his office another dozen. I paced the front hall, from the living room to the dining room and back again. I ran to the front window every time I saw headlights on the street. By midnight I had called the Highway Patrol in both states for information about any traffic accidents on the interstate but I was informed both times that there were none. Finally at one-thirty a car pulled into our driveway. I ran out the front door anxious to hold him in my arms after hours of worry, but what I saw made me stop short, it wasn�t Steve�s car. It was an unmarked police car. A large dark sedan with too many antenna on it to be anyone other than a cop. My heart lodged in my throat and I couldn�t speak. I could only nod at them when they asked if I was Mrs. Steven Thomas. I blink back the tears that the memories have called. I don�t want to remember anymore. It is almost over. I want time to fly. I want it done now. I want to move forward, on with life, I haven�t lived in years. I haven�t lived since the night the detective met me on my porch and asked me if I was my husband�s wife. I�m crossing the state line now. Welcome to Florida. So very touristy; happy and welcoming. Come on! Stay awhile, we have palm trees and sunshine and the ocean and don�t forget Mickey! I can hardly wait to be headed back the way I came. I hate Florida. I want to go home. But I can�t. I have to be here now. I have to be here for Steven. I have to be here to say goodbye. I have to be here when they execute my husband for murder. I have to be here, to watch him die, so that I can live.
"according to the florida department of corrections, more than one hundred people have registered on a waiting list to see an execution. write about one of them." not my best writing i must say. but not bad considering that i wrote it in less than ten minutes. i hope everyone had a good weekend. toodles. 9:22 pm - 15 Aug 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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