In 1980's New York, Barbara Fritz is the "meek and mild" little librarian assistant that nobody thinks twice about. Shy, soft-spoken, and ridiculously self-critical, she doesn't turn any heads. Not until she brutally kills her own father in cold blo...
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Saturday. 6:03 PM.
Gently and precisely, I applied one final stroke of paint. The job was done. Those barbaric words I had written could no longer be seen. My darkest thoughts lay hidden under a wet, golden peach hue.
"Kill him."
But who...? Who would've had me so enraged, that I'd devolve into a manic episode of writing on walls? I must have been in a state of pure delirium.
Fantasizing the death of another person was no doubt a cause for concern, but the only man I ever imagined doing malicious things to had died long ago, and I couldn't fault myself for that. Wicked fantasies weren't necessarily a crime, and the ones I'd had were more of a roadmap; an escape route. I thought that killing him was the only way I could be free. My younger self was powerless to the idea though.
So perhaps my perception of the world was a little off? And maybe I scribbled on walls just for the hell of it?
Boyles. Charlie Boyles. He crossed my mind at least once a day. I had hoped that when he died, I would have some sort of peace going forward. But I could still relive everything he did to me in a moment's notice. Because of him, I would never know what it was like to feel safe again. To have companionship. To be touched. All that was completely torn from my own human experience, and nothing could mend the seams. The depths he dragged me to as a young lady were inexplicable.
That was the same old story though. I'd say it was time to write a new one but, there wasn't anything out there for me.
Bending down, I tossed my brush into an empty can, and took a step back to review my work. I was ready to call it a day. The coat was nice and even; no bubbles or noticeable strokes—not too shabby for an amature. I'd have to pat myself on the back.
"All done," I puffed, blowing some stray blonde's out of my face. Since there was nothing else on my schedule, I could resume spiraling into madness now... or perhaps figure out who I'd contemplated killing last night? Better yet, I could wander off with my whiskey and go to bed.
"Decisions, decisions."
The painting was therapeutic, at least, and that was definitely something I needed more of. Staying busy wasn't one of my strong suits, and I didn't socialize much, so occupying myself had become quite the challenge. It was hard making friends when you couldn't relate to other people and their interests.
Could have been an age thing. Perhaps I was too mature for present-day activities? Everyone lately was going ballistic about looking younger, feeling younger, and acting younger—as if becoming older was a "knocking on Heaven's door" affair. For me, hitting forty was just another year gone by. That famous sense of dread never came.
I suppose adding up my time on earth was a grueling reminder of how little I had accomplished. Most women my age were sending their children off to college by now. But I was still standing here wondering what to do in my spare time, alone, and possibly on the verge of another mental breakdown. That was certainly something to consult Heaven about....
