Saturday's Storyteller: "It had been three nights since Heather had gotten any sleep, the thought of what she had done was obviously weighing on her."
by Belinda Roddie
It had been three nights since Heather had gotten any sleep, the thought of what she had done was obviously weighing on her. Her wife noticed this fairly quickly, and after all the tossing and turning, Heather had excused herself to crash on the couch so as not to disturb the love of her life. She tried making coffee and let the dark, earthy odor fill her nostrils like a mucus-y bitterness, yet she couldn't bring herself to drink the brew. It was three AM on the third night. The living room was hot and sticky even with the windows open.
It wasn't that she had killed a man. It wasn't that she had betrayed the love of her life. It wasn't even that she had lost everything to chance, or to carelessness. She had a good job, a good relationship, a good paycheck, and yes, a good, clean public record - she hadn't even received a traffic ticket. Heather set the mug of joe down and considered having tea instead. The thought of the powerful hit of mint or herb on her tongue, however, made her stomach churn.
No, what kept Heather up at night was, to her, something more bizarre and even more dire. Something that she would have to deal with for the rest of her life, with serious repercussions. It would not send her to jail. It hopefully would not end her marriage. But it would change everything, and she had to figure out how to handle it.
Of course, she knew that if she stayed up any longer, she might begin to hallucinate. In fact, the stars in the night sky outside already were starting to warp in her vision. Heather found her coat in the closet, snatched a bottle of caffeine pills from the bathroom cabinet, and made her way to the sidewalk to begin a long trek to Pop's Pub on the other side of town.
***
"No."
"C'mon, Mark."
"You've had three in an hour. I'm not going to pour you another one."
"Let me fucking enjoy myself, okay?"
"Heather."
"My name is not Heather!" she snapped, slamming down the empty pint glass and wincing as if she expected it to shatter. Mark, fat and handsome, stared at her.
"What?"
She exhaled. The air felt so thin in her mouth. It was like she was trying to suck it through too narrow of a straw. "My name is not Heather," she repeated. "It's Ann. I just found out."
Mark blinked and rubbed the back of his hand against his thick, blonde eyebrows. His large belly heaved against his apron as he managed to gently pry the stein out of his patron's hand/ Her gaze averted, she still gave away the exhaustion in her eyes. It really did seem to dim the color. Heather's eyes were blue. Mark liked blue.
"What do you mean, Ann?" the bartender finally asked, his voice giving away both his skepticism and his curiosity.
"I mean it's my real name," Heather said. "Ann Nash. I was abandoned by my parents when I was three and given a new name by the people who adopted me. They didn't tell me. Not once. Until my real dad wound up on my parents' doorstep, demanding to see me."
"Why would they change your name?"
"Because they didn't know it," she growled, finally feeling the alcohol kick in. No sleep plus booze equaled a bad combination. "I was left on the street, man. Of course, I don't remember it, but my parents apparently saved me before I stepped in front of a speeding garbage truck. Somehow, I feel like that's a metaphor for something."
Mark said nothing. He set down the glass and started pouring another customer a martini. Heather - or Ann - hiccuped. She was singing a little diddy. Something made up, something he didn't recognize.
"I'll drive you home," he said.
"Don't bother."
"I get off in thirty minutes."
Heather blinked. Mark thought he saw tears.
"All right. Fine."
***
Claire was awake when Heather returned home. They hugged and they kissed, and Heather cried and told her everything. Claire stroked the curls on Heather's head as she sobbed. They sat quietly together on the couch in the living room, the air still warm and clinging to their moist skin.
"You can be whoever you want to be, you know," Claire whispered. "I just want you to know that."
"Not that simple."
Claire sighed. "You going to talk to your parents about it?"
"Um. Yes."
They laughed. It felt good. Then it finally seemed like Heather was starting to fall asleep.
This week's prompt was provided by Kevin Steeper.
It had been three nights since Heather had gotten any sleep, the thought of what she had done was obviously weighing on her. Her wife noticed this fairly quickly, and after all the tossing and turning, Heather had excused herself to crash on the couch so as not to disturb the love of her life. She tried making coffee and let the dark, earthy odor fill her nostrils like a mucus-y bitterness, yet she couldn't bring herself to drink the brew. It was three AM on the third night. The living room was hot and sticky even with the windows open.
It wasn't that she had killed a man. It wasn't that she had betrayed the love of her life. It wasn't even that she had lost everything to chance, or to carelessness. She had a good job, a good relationship, a good paycheck, and yes, a good, clean public record - she hadn't even received a traffic ticket. Heather set the mug of joe down and considered having tea instead. The thought of the powerful hit of mint or herb on her tongue, however, made her stomach churn.
No, what kept Heather up at night was, to her, something more bizarre and even more dire. Something that she would have to deal with for the rest of her life, with serious repercussions. It would not send her to jail. It hopefully would not end her marriage. But it would change everything, and she had to figure out how to handle it.
Of course, she knew that if she stayed up any longer, she might begin to hallucinate. In fact, the stars in the night sky outside already were starting to warp in her vision. Heather found her coat in the closet, snatched a bottle of caffeine pills from the bathroom cabinet, and made her way to the sidewalk to begin a long trek to Pop's Pub on the other side of town.
***
"No."
"C'mon, Mark."
"You've had three in an hour. I'm not going to pour you another one."
"Let me fucking enjoy myself, okay?"
"Heather."
"My name is not Heather!" she snapped, slamming down the empty pint glass and wincing as if she expected it to shatter. Mark, fat and handsome, stared at her.
"What?"
She exhaled. The air felt so thin in her mouth. It was like she was trying to suck it through too narrow of a straw. "My name is not Heather," she repeated. "It's Ann. I just found out."
Mark blinked and rubbed the back of his hand against his thick, blonde eyebrows. His large belly heaved against his apron as he managed to gently pry the stein out of his patron's hand/ Her gaze averted, she still gave away the exhaustion in her eyes. It really did seem to dim the color. Heather's eyes were blue. Mark liked blue.
"What do you mean, Ann?" the bartender finally asked, his voice giving away both his skepticism and his curiosity.
"I mean it's my real name," Heather said. "Ann Nash. I was abandoned by my parents when I was three and given a new name by the people who adopted me. They didn't tell me. Not once. Until my real dad wound up on my parents' doorstep, demanding to see me."
"Why would they change your name?"
"Because they didn't know it," she growled, finally feeling the alcohol kick in. No sleep plus booze equaled a bad combination. "I was left on the street, man. Of course, I don't remember it, but my parents apparently saved me before I stepped in front of a speeding garbage truck. Somehow, I feel like that's a metaphor for something."
Mark said nothing. He set down the glass and started pouring another customer a martini. Heather - or Ann - hiccuped. She was singing a little diddy. Something made up, something he didn't recognize.
"I'll drive you home," he said.
"Don't bother."
"I get off in thirty minutes."
Heather blinked. Mark thought he saw tears.
"All right. Fine."
***
Claire was awake when Heather returned home. They hugged and they kissed, and Heather cried and told her everything. Claire stroked the curls on Heather's head as she sobbed. They sat quietly together on the couch in the living room, the air still warm and clinging to their moist skin.
"You can be whoever you want to be, you know," Claire whispered. "I just want you to know that."
"Not that simple."
Claire sighed. "You going to talk to your parents about it?"
"Um. Yes."
They laughed. It felt good. Then it finally seemed like Heather was starting to fall asleep.
This week's prompt was provided by Kevin Steeper.
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