White Trash and Recycled Nightmares by Rebecca Rowland

Author:Rebecca Rowland [Rebecca Rowland]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dead Sky Publishing
Published: 2023-08-09T00:00:00+00:00

Now, it was the Friday afternoon following Halloween, nearly seven months since Dora had first read her husband’s text exchanges. She walked from the garage onto the cement front steps, picked up the heavy doormat, and shook it violently. A cloud of dust and pollen surrounded her, dissipating as suddenly as it had arrived. Dora spotted a few stray candy wrappers on the walkway and picked them up. Soon, it would be time to remove the earthy autumnal decorations and replace them with sparkly Christmas ones.

There was something about the winter, with its barren tree limbs, hoary skies, and icy carpets of snow that made Dora think of cleanliness, immaculacy. It was pure and perfect, the crisp air of coldness. Everything would be silent or smothered.

Mother Nature cleaned up nice.

Dora returned to the kitchen, rinsed her husband’s martini glass in the sink and placed it gingerly in the dishwasher. She opened the cabinet beneath the sink and pushed the empty can of paint-thinner aside. She would have to put dishwashing detergent on the shopping list: they were almost out. She still couldn’t believe that after so many years of daily martinis, her husband hadn’t noticed that his vodka tasted different.

She shut the door to the machine and walked quickly to the bathroom. She knew she only had a few minutes left. Dora glanced about the room: nothing was out of the ordinary. Mark’s body was safely hidden behind the curtain of the tub, and she’d cleaned up all of the vomit he’d sprayed during his shower. His lips and fingers were tinted a periwinkle blue. Dora certainly hadn’t expected his body to thrash about the stall like it did. Now, he was curled up on his side, his knees pulled slightly up to his belly, his pale head lying motionless in a gelatinous puddle of dark red blood: an amuse-bouche of just desserts.

It was just as Dora slipped quietly behind the door of her dark bedroom, clutching the garden spade in her hand, that she heard the soft knock on the window of the breezeway.

Come on in, she thought. It’s open.

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