Saving Grace

12

The next morning, Grace's doorbell rang.

She groaned, coming to on the floor of her laundry, back leaning against her top-of-the-line washing machine. She would've rubbed her head as the true-blue hangover settled in, would've grimaced as her insides knotted up and the vodka took a hammer to the inside of her skull. It rang again – that damn bell. I imagine her lovely eyes opening into angry slits, looking down, seeing the remains of her beautiful dress – a mangled corpse of bleeding incisions and frayed contusions, barely covering her slender body.

For a moment, only a moment, the ringing stopped. Grace probably shifted on the tiles, felt the cool marble under her manicured fingers, waited for the howl again. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Silence. Her eyes, hot and aching, surely closed, and a painless slumber swept over her once again.

Until the knocking started.

Two raw, bloodshot eyes snapped open, and I bet she almost tore the door in half when she opened it.

"WHAT?!"

Two Mormons, well dressed with kind eyes and good intentions, smiled awkwardly at her from the porch.

"G-good morning, ma'am."

"Are you serious?" She barked. "Look, I'm not interested. Stop leaving shit in my door and fuck off."

I can see the poor blokes now – dumbfounded, glancing at each other helplessly, as if trying to figure out which one could outrun the other.

"Why, I'm very sorry, ma'am."

"Just go, okay? And take that with you," she added, glancing at a pamphlet in the younger one's hands.

They would've left quickly, I imagine. However, the Mormons weren't the important part. What they stood in front of was – a box, half a metre in length and width, flat with midnight blue colouring and a baby blue bow, tied carefully in the centre. Grace looked up, saw the backs of the faithful, and for a heartbeat or two, wondered if it was theirs. She shook her head, dismissing the thought, and instead lifted the box to bring it inside.

She would've been careful not to trip on the snoring bodies of the still-drunk, scattered all over the floor of her marvellous home. She would've found a clear spot – the coffee table or a kitchen chair – and pushed the empties onto the floating floorboards. I imagine she kneeled down, ran her hands over the loose bow, and pulled it apart. Inside was a dress – fiery red, strapless, with a lace bottom. The same perfect dress that she had worn so beautifully and ruined so carelessly. When she saw it, her hands froze and the delicate fabric tumbled out of her grasp, slipping from the box to the vomit-stained floor in a tangled heap. Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. And that was the first gift He ever gave her.

© A.G. Travers 2018