Drawer Full of Memories by Meradeth Houston

Sometimes we need to be thankful for our own strength. 

***

Source

Time seemed to shudder to a stop, rocking her back on my heels, as soon as the drawer slid open. The mad scrambled search for scissors forgotten in a heartbeat. Inside the drawer was a scatter of memories, each their own small world of wonder.

Each something she’d tried to forget.

Almost by some outside force, she reached inside. Folded papers that echoed words she’d loved. She’d believed them, too, and their professions of love and apology, faith and trust. Some part of her heart still burned with the embers of what they’d meant, a part she wished she could douse with water. Reading them pooled tears in her eyes, long forgotten memories flaring to life once more. The cinch of pain around her heart tightened down, sure and steady in a way she’d learned to live with over the past year.

The other objects conjured a myriad of other thoughts. The photos were the hardest. Smiling faces and far away places. Echoes from a time when things had been so much easier. But still, it was hard to ignore the pain that each smile covered in the images. The knowledge of what led up to those posed scenes on rooftops in other countries. The harsh words. Those photos hid all of that to the outside world, but today, they rushed back, impossible to mask.

Did she want to mask them? Sometimes it was so much easier to remember the better parts. Pretend the photos captured the truth, and not just the careful façade. But the truth, it always leaked through.

Staring into the drawer, she couldn’t help thinking of the bits she tried to forget. The nights of screaming fights. Of trying to escape so he could cool off, only to be chased down, through the house, doors no obstacle to his anger. Covers ripped back so that 3am fights could be held. Words, only ever words, but the kind that knifed through her, hitting points only an intimate partner knew to target.

Always, always, the truth hung heavy on her tongue during those times. Impossible to say, impossible to acknowledge. The truth only brought down more anger. And with that anger came fear, tears, and a desperate feeling of her heart fighting to beat it’s way out of her ribs—a caged bird that she could never let free.

How had they gotten there? Things had started off so vastly different. Laughter, love, shared tastes and interests. A common base that felt promising to build their lives on. The long walks and talks in the desert that had cemented their relationship into something she’d felt could never break.

Oh, she knew she’d played a role in the downfall. It takes two to tango. Her inability to trust him, the spontaneous anger, took their toll. Lies and silence resulted. The heavy weight of the truth a millstone around her neck. She’d done wrong, been wrong, and hated herself for it all. But how could she have done differently? Even now she couldn’t see how, though surely it existed. The long shadow of anger overcast their marriage, obscuring other paths even now.

It’s stranglehold left hand-shaped bruises on her soul.

The rest of the drawers in her desk carried folders of paperwork for things she should have felt pride in. Success in her job, her creative work, awards and recognitions for things she’d done. These, too, she’d kept to herself. Lied about and covered up. Sharing only when she absolutely had to with the man she’d chosen to spend her life with. Good news was never received well. The announcement of her promotion at work—something she couldn’t contain in her excitement—led to hours of screaming. She shuddered at the memory.

No, not all things had been rosy in the past, no matter how much she tried to peer at them through rose-colored glass.

Two imperfect people. Sometimes it felt like three: the man she loved, and the man he turned into when the anger consumed him. A joke they shared, one she never found terribly funny because it hid the horrible truth: she feared the angry man. She would have done anything to avoid him. Anything. Lie. Bend over backwards. Turn into someone she hardly recognized.

None of it ever, ever helped.

The strength to break away had taken forever to grow. She doubted every move she made. Comments always followed. “Doesn’t she know how hard it is to find a good man?” Her grandmother. “Dating is horrible! I just want to spare you that.” Her sister. An uphill battle every step of the way. Times when she knew her family would rather he were there, not her.

And always, always doubt.

Was she doing the right thing? Maybe it was all just a product of her imagination? Did she really want this? Could she be alone forever? Did she want to grow old by herself?

She shut the drawer, closing the memories within it once again. Someday maybe she’d be strong enough to clean it out. For now, the past could stay there. Her strength would eventually return.

For now she’d be thankful for the ability to just walk away.

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr,Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

ALL IS FAIR IN LOVERS' WAR or How I Got Schooled In Love by Eric Price

Through the window of the taxi, I could see a tear in her eye. She still had feelings for me. When she rolled down the window, I knew I would take her back the second she said, “I love you.”

Thunder cracked, and the downpour of rain splattered her face. She looked ready to burst with emotion, and she said, “If I ever see you again, you will regret ever meeting me!”

She rolled up the window and the taxi sped away. I thought it was a tear in her eye–I guess I was mistaken.

****

From the moment I met Mariana, I knew she was “The One.” She had everything I was looking for in a woman: intelligence, a sense of humor, light-brown hair flowing halfway down her back, perky breasts, a Russian accent–I didn’t even know I was looking for a Russian accent until I met Mariana.

I got a job right out of college designing set pieces for plays. Skip ahead a few years to when I landed a job to create the set for MACBETH. I delivered it to the theater the day of the first dress rehearsal. Enter Mariana.

Mariana had gotten her first acting role as the Third Witch. I should have guessed I would fall in love with a witch.

I wasn’t supposed to be at the theater when the cast arrived, but I had gotten a late start that morning. Nelly, a girl I had been seeing for a few weeks, got suspicious that I was cheating on her. Her suspicion aroused when my phone rang. I had gone to take a shower. The caller’s name was Tiffany, and she introduced herself to Nelly as my girlfriend.

In my defense, Tiffany was not my girlfriend. Nelly was. Tiffany was just a girl I had met at a bar a few nights before. I had drunk too much to drive, and she lived within walking distance. I don’t even remember giving her my phone number.

Nelly didn’t give me a chance to explain. I’m finishing my shower when her hand reaches in and turns off the hot water. I scream and turn off the cold. I can hear her yelling about “some slut on the phone,” not wanting to be “the other girl,” and “we’re through!”

I grab my towel and follow her into my kitchen. As she slams the door and leaves, I finally figure out what has happened. I step onto my second story balcony and waited for her to appear outside.

“Nelly, come up here so I can explain,” I say. But she grabs a flowerpot from the patio below and throws it at my head. I duck and the pot shatters against the wall behind me–covering me with soil.

Nelly climbs into her car and peels away, and I have to take another shower. This in turn makes me late setting the stage, and gives me the chance to meet Mariana. To quote MACBETH, “So foul and fair a day I have not seen.” If I had known how bad showering would soon become for me, methinks I may have quit bathing.

Exeunt Nelly and Tiffany–so to speak. I had never intended on talking to Tiffany after the night we had met anyway. Now I was free to see other people.

I took Mariana out for drinks. We had an amazing connection, and the next thing I know, I’m at the theater every day.

Enter Francesca. About a week after the play opened, Mariana’s sister, Francesca, came from Russia to see the play. The three of us went out to dinner, and Francesca made eyes, brushed against me, and tried to get my attention every way she could.

Mariana was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, until I met her sister. But I didn’t care; I loved Mariana.

The third day after Francesca arrived, I had worked myself to the point of exhaustion on a new set. Mariana had the night off, but I had forgotten she had a cast-only party. I went to her place to find Francesca home alone.

I hesitated when she invited me in, but she insisted, “A friend of my sister’s is a friend of mine.”

She opened a bottle of wine and we sat and talked. After two bottles of wine, I said, “Francesca, were you coming on to me the other night?”

She didn’t answer with words. She leaned across the table and kissed me. For the record she kissed me! When she pulled away, any thoughts I had of Mariana left with her. I leaned over for a second kiss.

When Mariana walked in, I can only imagine what it must have looked like. Francesca and I had made a bed out of cushions from the couch and chairs. We lay naked and wrapped in each other’s arms.

She shouted at us in Russian. I stumbled around trying to find my cloths–I hate getting yelled at while I’m naked. Mariana rushed out the door, and I followed only half dressed.

It had started storming sometime after I had fallen asleep. The streetlights shining off the wet pavement made it hard for me to see Mariana. Then I spotted her climbing into a parked taxi–probably the one she had just taken home from the party. Not knowing what else to do, I shouted, “At least we didn’t use your bed!”

The taxi didn’t leave right away. That’s why I thought she had had a change of heart. When she rolled down the window and said I would regret meeting her if she ever saw me again, I took the comment as an empty threat, nothing more than a rage of anger. I realize now she was making a prophesy—like her character in MACBETH.

****

My actions over the next few days eclipsed all the other foolish things I had done to that point. But I was in love. I had never been in love before. You’ve heard the cliché blinded by love. I disagree with it completely. Blind and stupid are not one-in-the-same.

I waited three days to call, and when I did, I got no answer. I left three messages every day for three days. I should have realized all these threes would come back to haunt me. She played the third of three witches, after all. She finally returned my call after the ninth message. I pleaded and begged until she agreed to give me a second chance.

Mariana came to my apartment. She said she wasn’t ready to see me at hers again. I had been working night and day on my sets. I had intended to cook a romantic meal for her, but I ran out of time. When she arrived, I hadn’t even showered. I stunk from sweat, sawdust, and paint.

I opened the door for Mariana and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled and came in. I explained that I had been working all day. I told her I would like to take a shower, and then take her out to dinner at the restaurant of her choice. She agreed and sat down in front of the television. I was hoping she would take a shower with me, but I thought it may be too much to ask presently. So I went to shower alone.

Do you remember when I mentioned I should have quit bathing? Here’s why.

I stood in the shower for about five minutes, letting the hot water sooth my sore muscles before I started shampooing my hair. With my eyes closed, I heard the shower curtain pull aside. Mariana had decided to join me without me having to ask.

I said, “Did you come to get in? The water’s hot, so watch yourself.”

She didn’t reply.

I said, “Mariana?” and opened my eyes a sliver, expecting to see her standing naked.

What I saw, made my eyelids snap open like window blinds in a cartoon. Mariana stood fully clothed holding a huge dagger. She stabbed at me and I instinctively reached for her arm. My hands must have been slippery from the shampoo. Her arm slid through and the dagger dug into my shoulder.

She pulled it out and stabbed at me again. I shouted, “Mariana!” but she was in a trance. I noticed a gleam on her arm as it raced toward me. In what seemed like an eternity, my mind thought, Vaseline? She’s covered her arms in Vaseline? And then the dagger bored into my other shoulder.

The shampoo dripped, stinging my eyes, blinding me. I felt the dagger dig into my stomach before my world went black.

I awoke in the hospital the next day. I’m told that she dialed 911 before leaving my apartment. She never wanted to kill me. She wanted me to suffer.

My lawyer told me I should get my story on paper while it’s still fresh in my memory. So that’s what I’ve done.

****

Eric Price lives with his wife and two sons in northwest Iowa. He began publishing in 2008 when he started writing a quarterly column for a local newspaper. Later that same year he published his first work of fiction, a spooky children’s story called Ghost Bed and Ghoul Breakfast. Since then, he has written stories for children, young adults, and adults. Three of his science fiction stories have won honorable mention from the CrossTime Annual Science Fiction Contest. His first YA fantasy novel, Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud, received the Children’s Literary Classics Seal of Approval and the Literary Classics Award for Best First Novel. His second novel, The Squire and the Slave Master, continues the Saga of the Wizards. It is scheduled for a September 2015 release. Find him online at authorericprice.com, Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.