𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐍, guy germaine (✓)

05. the vase

august 1st, 2009

dear guy,

today, i had a visitor for the first time in months. it was my friend, valerie. she and her husband came for tea. david and her husband made themselves comfortable out in the yard, eating finger sandwiches and no doubt chatting about golf or some stupid conversation that i would have otherwise had to endure.
valerie has a child. a six-year-old daughter, to be exact. she is adorable, and i got a little misty-eyed looking at her as i held her in my lap. maybe it's because she looks a little like me.
i was startled when she asked me if i was in love with david. i lied to her and told her that yes, the two of us were in love. she then told me she felt like i was lying. i asked her why. she told me that she just knew, and then returned to her coloring book. i swallowed back the pain in my throat, for i had been hit with the truth from a six-year-old. even a six-year-old could detect my unhappiness just from staring at me for a little bit.

after val and her husband left, father came to visit for dinner. i hugged him when he came in, took his coat, and he hugged me back. i wanted to hit the bastard. during dinner, as father sipped his soup and grinned like nothing was wrong -- like nothing had been wrong for the past five years since he forced me out of college and out of my nursing major and into a marriage with some socialite's son -- i clutched my fork and did not eat my bread and butter. i didn't eat my chicken either, rather excused myself from the table and said i did not fell well, and went into my room.
i shut the door and didn't do anything. i just sat on the bed and stared at the floral wallpaper. my eyes traveled to the flower vase sitting on the nightstand. it was a wedding gift. it was beautiful, really. simple glass with little swirling engravings.
i hated it.
after a moment's consideration, i stood up from the bed, the frame creaking at the release of my weight, and picked the vase up.
i glanced at it and smashed it against the wall.
afterward, i didn't want to make a fuss by going downstairs for the broom and dustpan. instead, i got on my knees and picked up the remains of my destruction. my hands bled. i didn't notice until i saw a drop of crimson trickle from my palm onto the hardwood floor. i cleaned that up, too.
neither david nor my father noticed my bandaged fingers under the silk evening gloves that i donned after i was finished erasing the traces of my tantrum.
the satisfaction of breaking that vase lasted me the night, and i slept better than i had in ages.

love, gracie.