Drowning

Chapter One

Lillian sighed deeply, reaching up to shift the strap of her army green canvas messenger bag. The thick heels of her black leather knee-high boots clicked dully against the worn paving stones of the street, laces fluttering ever so slightly in the faint breeze. The wind picked up almost imperceptibly, lifting a couple stray strands of her hair and scattering them across her forehead. She tucked them behind her ear automatically, her hand moving back to rest on the strap of her bag once more. Turning the corner, her eyes traced the distance between herself and the flickering neon sign of Betty May's coffee shop. Her mind wandered aimlessly, going back to the night prior. Mark's unresponsive demeanor topped by his subtly furrowed brow still haunted her mind whenever she closed her eyes, the strangely eerie scene stuck in her brain. He had been silent all night, not responding to her call of "Welcome home," when he walked in the front door after work. When she asked him what was wrong, he simply looked at her blankly, then turned away and walked into the dining room, sitting down at the table wordlessly and remaining there, silent and unresponsive. It wasn't the first time it had happened. Every so often, he would completely ignore her and any of her efforts to talk to him, give him the dinner she had made for him, or engage with him in any way. It was as if his body was still in this world, but his mind had left for another dimension. Although it troubled her, she was used to it by now. Or at least, she thought she was. Last night had been different. He hadn't eaten for three days prior to that evening, and she was beginning to worry. As a last resort, she had attempted to feed him small pieces of the roast dinner she had prepared, and he snapped. He shot upward, suddenly standing over her, his chair tipping backwards with a crack muffled by the thick carpet. He locked eyes with her and held her gaze, pure, unadulterated fury boiling behind his eyes, causing him to appear taller and more intimidating than she had ever remembered seeing him look. She had risen out of her own chair, backing up slowly to flatten herself against the wall as she watched his shoulders rise and fall with his suddenly heavy breathing. She had called his name multiple times with no response. He seemed to be staring at something just over her right shoulder. Gathering her courage, she had stepped forward, calling his name once more. Without warning, he had reached out and slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. She gasped, neck twisted to the left at an uncomfortable angle. She had left the house immediately, stayed at a friend's house overnight, and left at the break of dawn to walk to Betty May's. That was the first time he had ever struck her, and, reaching up tenderly to touch her swollen purple cheek, she fought both sides of her mental debate over whether or not she was still safe in her own home.