Capítulo 8: Booked~~~ Part Eight
As she sat, she began to speak in third person...she referred to herself as "Veronica". Viably she negotiated with herself, her shallow reasoning allowing her to take control of the liquor. Rum, of all things. She leaned forward and crawled to her knees...and sat back down. "Lamont" she screamed, yet again. She studied the time, it was now 11:43, I stood feeling for the buttons to disable the phones, the calls came like the two were competing. Their screen lights shined inside my pockets. I needed to leave, or did I? I had no children to run home to, no school clothes to iron. The emotions suddenly resurfaced, the suspense had concealed the hurt temporarily...I wanted to scream, right then, right there! The pictures...she looked just like his mother! Was her name Katarina? I could not convalesce from this malady, I could not bear to feel. My emotions were tactile as if I held them inside my palm, tangible as matter. He had held them once. I was incredulous. My vows. Had I not said them and meant them? This was mockery, my comportment was becoming lunatical, my fury utmost. How had he, how could he! I affirmed solemnly not to ever let him subdue my intellect, this only reinforced my tenacity to annihilate his prudent philosophies and his guileful intentions. He had only read the book, but i was rewriting it! The smell of his book, musty. Its pages discolored, its spine unglued. Yet he held it together, the stitching rotted away as he explored the fine print for the part he missed. Not found because it had been rewritten, the plot, the cast, the setting, all revised. No one ever reads the preface. Had not he wanted the synopsis? Odious and ignoble, the incomprehensible script, he had wrote it himself...his unavailing penmanship displaying his signature. He'd written it with ardor, great zeal, and named it Christy. Each chapter contradicting the last, corners folded to later reference the context. His book had been rewritten. I had rewrote it! THE AWARD FOR THE BEST NONFICTION BOOK NOW BELONGED TO ME!!!!
The sentences were the same, but the idioms now differently emphasized...they were now homonyms...
She now spake in volume, I listened. Her intent was diabolical. Her calculations and conspiracies incessant. She had planned to kill him, she wanted him dead. He had wronged her tremendously, he had turned her into something hideous behind closed doors. The need to be herself was unbearable...I could tell. Her perspective amenable and justifiable, however I could not allow her to consummate the direful plot she aspired. I would kill her first. Her love had not been genuine, her duties obligatory. She now sat sluggishly, surely she felt the full effect of the Xanax and Cocaine. She slumped forward, the gun in her hand rested on the floor. She nodded, her hard breathing indicated she was now asleep. I peered around the arrangement in the vase to determine my next move. Her expression feral yet despondent. A rush of sorrow consumed me. I soon realized the analogy was basically feminal. Her modest and virtuous demeanor was a facade. The alternate persona she created was skillful and unscrupulous. I now dictated both of their destinies. I was the one who had been manipulated and swindled, cheated and conned. I had been deceived, she would soon feel my wrath! The premonitions, I could see their fates intelligibly...I could see their stories, I had begun the new chapters. I rearranged the words and changed the pronouns...the superlatives were now in my favor. The adjectives bold, the characters recreated and now introduced by relevance. He would appear last.
I stood before her, her middle finger was on the trigger. Her slumped neck and downward head showed the uncovered stitches in her sew-in.
I stood before her.
I knelt, I wanted to look her in the face. Her deep breaths forceful as she exhaled, a single tear rested underneath her eye, she smelled like my husband. Her torn shirt displayed her Cesarean cut. The black line faint but evident...
She mumbled. I stood erect as she adjusted her head, now upward. Her eyes slightly open. She regurgitated in her sleep, the acidic smell of bile filled the space. Would she die? If I didn't help her, would she die? She would die. She began to cough and struggle for air, vomit now pouring from her mouth, her head still reclined. She suddenly moved her hand. I ran for the door quick and unintended. The chime sounded as I closed it with force, as a result of panicking. I heard the glass shatter as the bullet struck the porcelain vase.
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