Would you Swallow all your Pride?

Chapter Six: Green.

"I won't." That was all Wilhemina said before she got up and left the office.

The moment Wilhemina got into her car tears began quietly falling down her cheeks. She ignored them, pretending there was nothing going on as she drove home. When her heels clacked down on the purple carpet of her living room, Venable broke down. She sat down on the couch and cried like a child who had been punished for doing something wrong. Purpura meowed once, staring at Wilhemina with its big dark eyes as she cried for what seemed like hours. When Venable finally managed to calm down, Purpura was already on her lap, leaning to lick the tears on her cheeks. "I don't deserve you," Wilhemina croaked out. The cat meowed again, bumping its head on Venable's cheek. "You're too sweet." She sniffled, reaching to pet Purpura's soft skin. The cat began to purr. Billie Dean's words and the way she spoke to her echoed through Wilhemina's head, along with flashbacks of the many times she had lunch alone because the kids didn't want to sit down with someone who was 'crooked'. Something inside Venable bled; a memory, a feeling, a sentiment... something. Something bled tremendously. It hurt. It hurt in a way that caused her eyes to fill with tears and her body to feel small and helpless. Purpura meowed again, wanting to get Wilhemina's attention. "Yes, sweetheart... I'm here." She sniffled again. The cat kept on staring at her, gently lifting its paw and resting the soft part of it on one of her cheeks. "Darling..." Wilhemina's eyes filled with tears again. "I wish I could make everyone see me like you do..." Venable couldn't. She simply couldn't open up. Anyone could hurt her again, judge her again, laugh at her again, point at everything that made her ashamed of herself. Opening up was not an option, and so she came across as bitter; as bitter, as insensitive, as rude, as conceited, as obnoxious. And in reality, she was simply scared. Venable knew she should know better at her age, but her therapist would always say that everyone had their own time. Still, she felt late. Late to life. Late to herself.

When Wilhemina finally managed to calm down, her head had begun throbbing and her nose was stuffed. She got up to take a bath and eat something before bed. Venable just wanted to sleep. She wanted to sleep for as long as she could and then she wanted to wake up and forget everything. But of course, things never go as planned, and when the clock hit midnight and she was still rolling in bed with Billie Dean's words echoing in her head, Venable reached for her phone. I shouldn't. But she needed to. Scrolling down, she found Billie's number, from the day she had called her, and saved the contact. With hesitation, she opened a text chat. For minutes and more minutes Venable stared the screen, pondering on what to write, on what to say, if writing something was the correct way to go about it in the first place. Wilhemina knew she would regret it in the morning, when her mind was empty again and her eyes weren't so heavy. But right now, every time she tried to sleep all she saw was Billie Dean; the way she looked at her, the way she had spoken to her, the way everything had made her feel. The way she still felt. The memories that kept on coming back. After taking a deep breath, Wilhemina simply began to type.

Wilhemina Venable: Good night. I know this is not an appropriate time to contact you nor the correct way to go about it. But it's the way I found. I do not expect you to answer to my text right now—in fact, I'd rather if we both pretend that this message has never happened. I have been thinking about our conversation earlier and it frankly has stuck with me. This is my way of saying I'm not... that kind. Talking is not my forte, as you've probably already noticed.

Wilhemina read the message once. Twice. Thrice. And then she groaned to herself. Not even in text she could express what she felt. Maybe I am that kind. She took a deep breath, eyes so tired they refused to grow tears again. And then she hit send. Fuck. Billie was her boss, for fuck's sake. How old was Wilhemina? How shameful, a woman in her forties acting like a scaredy cat. It was done, now. Venable set her phone aside and turned the other way, nails scratching the sheet in order to have a sound, a texture to focus at rather than the growing nervousness in her stomach. Purpura jumped on the bed, carefully crawling closer to Wilhemina. The cat meowed, bumping its head on Venable's nervous hand. "Yes, darling?" Wilhemina now caressed between Purpura's long ears, hearing the low buzzing of her affection. A small smile spread across her lips. "You're my best friend, aren't you?" Perhaps the only one I've ever had. The cat seemed to understand, for it crawled even closer and lay down near Wilhemina's chest. The sweet scent of lavender lotion filled Venable's nostrils. "Thank you for existing," that was the last thing she whispered before closing her eyes again and resting her cheek on the cat's rump. Miraculously, she managed to fall asleep.