YRKB
01-12-2011, 01:30 PM
Karen’s husband killed himself in the duration of a court case between the couple and a private hospital. The dispute was whether or not a surgical operation on his back had indeed been the cause of his waist down paralysis. Incensed and emasculated by the bitter twist of fate, and the fact that his tragic quality of life meant less than, at the very least, the little bit of money potentially owed – he binge drank and lead himself into the path of an oncoming lorry at around 3.30 in the morning.
The payout offered was £997,781. With the little Karen had left in the account she’d shared with her deceased husband, she was a millionaire.
She thought about it often, gradually and consistently, despite being told not to by her family. Though they argued that no amount of corporation money could compensate for the loss of her lover and companion of 15 years – Karen wanted to find out. She already knew they themselves were no better substitute. They grieved as deeply, and more violently than she could – causing her to feel worthless, a little lower than she could endure. Logic and emotion malfunctioned and she began to consider if clothes, shoes, champagne and expensive perfumes could help in anyway.
So she accepted.
The first week she spent crying alone in a bed and breakfast – her hastily stuffed suitcases unmoved from their position adjacent to the bed. Gradually she numbed herself to the vitriol that shattered into her slow train of thought, recollections of all that had been alleged while she stood in the firing line, oozing guilt and alien grief, her fist tight around the thin future. Eventually, she decided that now, with nothing – there was room for everything. She paid it in.
It took another two weeks, another intensive, traumatic snag to wield through, and then she began. What sparkled bright enough in shop windows she strained to fit into the boots and doors of black cabs. She managed to make room for designers she’d never heard of, but seemed to know exactly what she wanted to look like, how she hoped it could make her feel - and what cuts, fabrics and formations would help her achieve it. Balenciaga, Ferregamo and Diane Von Furstenberg became fast favourites. No one purchase satiated her miraculously, so she intended the next one would, and in such a fashion she spent thirstily.
Karen owned so many textures, cuts and colours – each so attractive alone, but appearing a pallid mess simultaneously in their assigned spaces. Like paints that ran into each other, fudging to a big monotonous shade that fouled and marked her conscience. She bore the stains, because of habit.
With time, Karen began to think she could go back to her family. Family could speak to her, purchases could only speak for her. She called, found someone willing to give her time to grovel and the reconciliation was arranged. Upon her arrival, as if a God-fearing crowd gathered to exorcise the devil from her, they surged and stressed divine instruction around her. She could be right and with them if she gave up her heathen existence and it’s accessories – any money she spent from now on would be unsoiled. Could she now see that she could be happy? Could she conform?
She accepted.
Karen was happy, loved and forgiven for a little length of time. Yet she did not feel as though she thought she should. She did not feel permanent, or entirely happy. This struck her often, sensationally, should she cross a brilliant enough shop front. Looking inside showed her unhappiness more aesthetically pleasing than the monotony she now knew. There was another way to be unhappy, the old way, the superficial. For four years she struggled against the uncomfortable truth, knowing she couldn’t come back if she caved in.
But soon it was suffocating – the calculated harmony, the magnanimous unspoken, the superior causal sadness – she wanted no more of it. No more of being the good widow. Of being dire and depressed, of weekday to weekend routine and food shopping. A glamorous, cluttered pain – the one she had once known, that allowed her to be beautiful, was what she began to crave. Though, if she really thought about it, Karen wasn’t sure if that was truly what she craved or now just the high of consumerism. It scared her. It sent a surge through her. She left one morning while the family prepared for work and school. She withdrew some money she’d dared to hide and headed for the city.
Karen would not call again.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown
The payout offered was £997,781. With the little Karen had left in the account she’d shared with her deceased husband, she was a millionaire.
She thought about it often, gradually and consistently, despite being told not to by her family. Though they argued that no amount of corporation money could compensate for the loss of her lover and companion of 15 years – Karen wanted to find out. She already knew they themselves were no better substitute. They grieved as deeply, and more violently than she could – causing her to feel worthless, a little lower than she could endure. Logic and emotion malfunctioned and she began to consider if clothes, shoes, champagne and expensive perfumes could help in anyway.
So she accepted.
The first week she spent crying alone in a bed and breakfast – her hastily stuffed suitcases unmoved from their position adjacent to the bed. Gradually she numbed herself to the vitriol that shattered into her slow train of thought, recollections of all that had been alleged while she stood in the firing line, oozing guilt and alien grief, her fist tight around the thin future. Eventually, she decided that now, with nothing – there was room for everything. She paid it in.
It took another two weeks, another intensive, traumatic snag to wield through, and then she began. What sparkled bright enough in shop windows she strained to fit into the boots and doors of black cabs. She managed to make room for designers she’d never heard of, but seemed to know exactly what she wanted to look like, how she hoped it could make her feel - and what cuts, fabrics and formations would help her achieve it. Balenciaga, Ferregamo and Diane Von Furstenberg became fast favourites. No one purchase satiated her miraculously, so she intended the next one would, and in such a fashion she spent thirstily.
Karen owned so many textures, cuts and colours – each so attractive alone, but appearing a pallid mess simultaneously in their assigned spaces. Like paints that ran into each other, fudging to a big monotonous shade that fouled and marked her conscience. She bore the stains, because of habit.
With time, Karen began to think she could go back to her family. Family could speak to her, purchases could only speak for her. She called, found someone willing to give her time to grovel and the reconciliation was arranged. Upon her arrival, as if a God-fearing crowd gathered to exorcise the devil from her, they surged and stressed divine instruction around her. She could be right and with them if she gave up her heathen existence and it’s accessories – any money she spent from now on would be unsoiled. Could she now see that she could be happy? Could she conform?
She accepted.
Karen was happy, loved and forgiven for a little length of time. Yet she did not feel as though she thought she should. She did not feel permanent, or entirely happy. This struck her often, sensationally, should she cross a brilliant enough shop front. Looking inside showed her unhappiness more aesthetically pleasing than the monotony she now knew. There was another way to be unhappy, the old way, the superficial. For four years she struggled against the uncomfortable truth, knowing she couldn’t come back if she caved in.
But soon it was suffocating – the calculated harmony, the magnanimous unspoken, the superior causal sadness – she wanted no more of it. No more of being the good widow. Of being dire and depressed, of weekday to weekend routine and food shopping. A glamorous, cluttered pain – the one she had once known, that allowed her to be beautiful, was what she began to crave. Though, if she really thought about it, Karen wasn’t sure if that was truly what she craved or now just the high of consumerism. It scared her. It sent a surge through her. She left one morning while the family prepared for work and school. She withdrew some money she’d dared to hide and headed for the city.
Karen would not call again.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown