albay
09-06-2012, 09:12 AM
This is a chapter of a book I am writing, so the context and the character may be unclear.
And I’m not thinking of her, not thinking of her when she taps on the door, not thinking of her when she knocks louder, not thinking of her when she bangs on the door, pounds, alternating between a closed fist and an open hand, trying to turn the knob on the door that is locked and hitting it harder and harder, now in an effort to bring it down, to open it, all the while saying “Stephen! Stephen!” through the wood and white paint that mutes and distorts her screams but cannot mask the panic in her voice, beating and hammering on the door without any thought of the noise she is making, not thinking of her, not thinking of the bathwater that was once hot but is now stale and lukewarm and discomforting, not thinking of her when she comes back to the door with something else, something harder than her hand that makes a harsher noise when it hits the door but still cannot drown her out, not thinking of her when the lock breaks through the wall and the door swings open, doorknob leaving a dent in the wall, not thinking of her when she drops the stool and rips back the shower curtain, not thinking and not seeing her when she grabs my head in her hands and pulls me out from under the water, not seeing the hollow un-acceptance in her eyes, not feeling her sobs that shake through her hands and echo in my neck and hair, not feeling the cold, harsh air that I only realize now I had written off as something I’d never feel again, not hearing her cries to God and to me, not thinking of her and not thinking of anything because I’d thought I’d never think again and who would want to be able to think in a scene like this.
And I’m not thinking of her, not thinking of her when she taps on the door, not thinking of her when she knocks louder, not thinking of her when she bangs on the door, pounds, alternating between a closed fist and an open hand, trying to turn the knob on the door that is locked and hitting it harder and harder, now in an effort to bring it down, to open it, all the while saying “Stephen! Stephen!” through the wood and white paint that mutes and distorts her screams but cannot mask the panic in her voice, beating and hammering on the door without any thought of the noise she is making, not thinking of her, not thinking of the bathwater that was once hot but is now stale and lukewarm and discomforting, not thinking of her when she comes back to the door with something else, something harder than her hand that makes a harsher noise when it hits the door but still cannot drown her out, not thinking of her when the lock breaks through the wall and the door swings open, doorknob leaving a dent in the wall, not thinking of her when she drops the stool and rips back the shower curtain, not thinking and not seeing her when she grabs my head in her hands and pulls me out from under the water, not seeing the hollow un-acceptance in her eyes, not feeling her sobs that shake through her hands and echo in my neck and hair, not feeling the cold, harsh air that I only realize now I had written off as something I’d never feel again, not hearing her cries to God and to me, not thinking of her and not thinking of anything because I’d thought I’d never think again and who would want to be able to think in a scene like this.