At Least They're Committed

I can’t think of anything to write! Maybe it’s because I write so much at work. Maybe it’s because I’m uninspired. Maybe its because I’m overall boring as of late. Reality seems to be all-consuming and leaving me little time for creative thought.

All right. I’ll have to resort to stream of consciousness . . . and rely on unfinished business as I again start the story I’ve wanted to write for years. 

By candlelight, Lacy ran her tongue over her teeth, parting her lips wide and looking at the pearly whites. It felt good. Her smile looked much better. In the four hours since she’d gotten her braces removed already she felt almost pretty and twice as old. She ran a brush through her dishwater-blonde hair, cocking her head to the side and smiling, practicing her “look.” The shadows cast by the flickering flames made her expression in the nightstand mirror dance and change — likely a more accurate reflection of her than her provocative pose. She wondered if she was pretty. She wondered if she would ever be pretty. 

The lights weren’t off on purpose. They were off because the fuse in the old home in which she lived with her grandfather had blown again, and while she was in her bedroom on the top floor he was in the basement screwing with the wiring. The darkness worked to her advantage, though, when the screaming started.

High, piercing cries cut through the night and Lacy found herself instantly at her window, staring down in the compound that housed the old schoolhouse in which they lived, surrounded by old people in colorful houses that smelled funny on the inside. The dark room made the stars and the streetlamp seem that much brighter, as below a ghostly woman in a flowing nightgown ran wildly in circles, wailing like a banshee alone into the night. 

“Papa!” Lacy yelled, peeling herself from the spectacle and running down the hall. “Papa!” 

From two floors below, she could hear her grandfather bolting up the stairs two at a time, his footfalls echoing against the hardwood floors and institutional walls. They nearly ran into each other on the first floor as in alarm he spun toward the stairs to her room. “Oh!” she blurted as he grabbed her shoulders to keep from colliding. 

“WHAT? Are you OK?” he was nearly shaking her.

“It’s Mrs. Walton! She’s out by the street caterwauling like mad woman!” 

His brow furrowed as he stopped to listen. They both stopped to listen . . . There was no sound, not even the crickets. The elder turned and headed toward the back door, throwing it open into the cool August night. “You stay here.”

She didn’t.

She tiptoed behind him watching her papa join a circle of senior citizens closing in on the spot where she’d seen Mrs. Walton. She didn’t see her there now, though. How odd, she thought. She’d been there a moment before and she couldn’t have gotten far.

As if in answer, the air burst with gasps and cries of “Oh my God!” and “Is she?” and “Call 911!” Her papa pushed through the group and Lacy caught a glimpse of the old woman in a crumpled heap on the ground. Again the night went quiet as for several minutes her grandfather performed CPR. The old people stepped back and she could see her grandfather kneeling. She whispered the words as he spoke them aloud.

“She’s dead.”