Hell is Where the Heart is and Other Short Stories

Hell is Where the Heart is

It was a dreary February morning when she made the last left to finish her laps around the block. She loved running. She loved going fast. Something about the wind whipping at her face, as the adrenaline pumped through her was addictive. As the house came into sight, she slowed down to catch her breath. The house was messy as usual, shoes, trash, and empty beer cans strewn about the floor. She checked the clock; it was 6:00. Her husband never got up before 9:00. She quickly shoved the trash to the side and ran upstairs to shower. Thirty minutes later, she was out of the house again. Running about doing this and that. She always kept herself busy. After all the errands were complete, she had run out of excuses to stay away. Reluctantly, she returned. As she entered the perfect little Tudor house she called home, she braced herself for what she knew would be on the other side of that door. The electric hum of the treadmill met her ears. And there he was, running, sweating, puffing, moving, yet going nowhere. She hated treadmills. She tried to slip by unnoticed but froze up when she heard the treadmill stop.

"Took you long enough. Where have you been? This place is a wreck." He walked towards her. "When are you gonna act like a popper wife? You're not a teen anymore, running about lallygagging."

Wife, when had that become such a bitter word?

"I was running errands. There were things that needed to be done." She kept her eyes on the ground.

"I decide what needs to be done, and I need this house clean."

"I'm not a maid."

"Damn you, woman!" His fist made contact with the clock on the wall, stopping time at 3:00. "When have I ever asked you to be a maid. All I ask is that you behave the way a good wife should. Be respectful, pretty, and diligent. Is that too much for a man to ask?"

"I am diligent. I work. I clean. I cook. I pick up after your slobbery. Unlike some people I know, I don't waste my life sleeping in and drinking the night away!"

She knew what was coming next but didn't care enough to block it. Smack! Heat spread across her face, along with an ugly red handprint. Silently, she turned around and walked to the kitchen. She looked out the window. "I should work in the garden. the groundhogs have been tearing up the grass all season," she thought. She walked outside.

"Where are you going? You left the door open. There are still groceries to put away!"

She covered her ears, but she could still hear him.

"I'm still speaking to you, woman! Don't disrespect me!"

She walked across the yard

"You be a proper wife!"

She spun around and shouted, "I am a proper wife, but God knows I wish I wasn't!"

Honk! She saw the truck. She saw the road. She saw the sky. "I love the sky; it's so pretty," she thought. Caw! Caw! She searched the blue expanse, and her eyes met the solitary crow, an inky blemish on the cloudless canvas. Then that inky blackness enveloped her, a comforting embrace.

Where am I? I look around but there is nothing to be seen but black, a void. I call out but hear nothing but my echo. Where is he? He was right behind me. Hello! Silence. I think back, and it hits me. I'm dead. I am free.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see a path, stretching seemingly endlessly before me. I don't care where it leads; I'm just glad to be going somewhere, anywhere. I run. There is no wind to whip my hair, but there is movement, and I am free! Free! Free! A feeling of euphoria I haven't experienced since childhood floods my senses. I recall all those many times I had wished for such freedom—the endless, repetitive arguments, that always ended in me snapping, and him hitting me, that mountain of housework that always loomed over me, no matter how hard I worked, and the endless rat wheel I called a life. I know I am no saint, but this sure feels like heaven.

My lungs begin to burn, so I slow down. Then in the corner of my eye, I see a warm glow. It's only a faint light, but in this blackness, it shines like a beacon. It's the light from a window—the window of a beautiful home. I knock but receive no answer. Cautiously, I open the door. The hum of electricity fills the air. And that's when I see it: the treadmill.

"Took you long enough. Where have you been? This place is a wreck." He walks towards me. "When are you gonna act like a popper wife? You're not a teen anymore, running about lallygagging."

My throat feels tight. I can't breathe. I look around the room—the messy, Tudor-style room. My eyes stop on the clock. Three o'clock, it reads. The treadmill starts up again, and I realize: this isn't heaven; it's hell.