her — a short story

It will be Tuesday, the day of weeping, but nobody knew that.

The day will start with your waking, with the waking of all, the warmth of the sun gently knocking on your doors and tapping at your windows. Your neighbours murmured their greetings, hands clasped to their chests as all kneeled at their doorsteps to praise and thank Her.

The sun flickered once, twice, and the whispered prayers flickered briefly as well. Some hands unclasped, but yours stayed, tight, no, you did not flicker. Others rejoined slowly, voices blending into the chorus of recited devotion as the sun shone brighter, reassuring – She was silently apologizing for that flicker, that waver, that moment of doubt.

As all walked past their bright, green lawns and returned to their blank, white houses, you went to the back windowsill, to care for your Harvest. Lined with bright, green plants in blank, white pots, you smile and thank Her silently, fingers ghosting over the pristine leaves before you.

You snap your hand back, as if burnt, when a single leaf falls from the very middle plant.

No, no, there must be some mistake, of course. It is in the perfect place to receive sunlight, you water it on time, at time, every day, of course, it is another perfect Harvest. You pick the leaf up with strangely-steady hands and… and do you try to place it back? Try to correct the (your) mistake? Of course, yes, it’s your mistake. She has brought you a beautiful Harvest and you have trampled, stumbled all over it.

Leaf in hand, you move to the bathroom, but… but no, no they will see it in the system if you flush it. You move to the bedroom, kitchen, living room, all places that you know must be immaculately clean and you know this little piece of greenery would stand out against such a stark white background.

You find yourself back at the windowsill. The sun has not flickered again. There are no other losses from the Harvest. She has not wronged you. You have wronged Her, you realize, and so you hastily place the leaf in your mouth and chew and chew and chew.

The roughness sliding against your tongue is atonement, you think. It pricks you in the throat, and you struggle to push it down, but that harsh texture is the least you deserve for wronging Her. You kneel in the light of the windowsill, and you beg for forgiveness. You weep. There is no answer. You do not deserve one.

You do not tell others about this. You fear their wrath and curses and hatred – when only She has the right to think of you in such a way. There is something wrong, you know, but you blame yourself for this wrongness.

It will be Tuesday, the day of weeping, but nobody knew that.

You join your neighbours, once more. Once more, the sun and sky flicker, fading briefly. The voices do not waver, this time.

The voices do stop, however, when a long black tear appears. Right above you, in an unnatural, jagged shape, there is black. The area around it wavers viciously. Voices re-appear, but they are anxious and loud and panicked and you don’t quite know what to do. A crack, above, booming and sharp but only a little bit louder than the rising screams around you.

You stay kneeling, however. Stay with hands clasped and mumbled prayers and a racing heart. You know, know that you have brought this upon all – with the destruction of Her Harvest, you have incurred Her wrath.

There is the dull rumbling of car engines, large white vans that come crawling over hills and leak men in bleak white suits. You recognize them, of course, as Extension Agents, ones that check your Harvest weekly and ensure all of Her commandments are met.

Two Extension Agents approach you – two Agents approach everyone – and begin to corral you back into your house, lips and grip on your arm both noticeably tight. You cannot find it in yourself to protest, feeling guilt and regret and shame seep through your entire being. Your limbs are heavy and dense, so you are the last one to be relocated back inside. Before they can close the door – your door – however, you notice something.

You notice the sky has began to weep. She has began to weep. Black, thick sludge drips from above, the widening crack in the sky allowing more and more of this horrible liquid to leak through. She is weeping, demanding atonement, showing to all Her utter disappointment of them. Of you. She is weeping, and you soon find yourself doing the same.

It will be Tuesday, the day of weeping, but only you know that.

 

PERSONAL RESPONSE connection:

…about the conflict between pursuing a personal desire and choosing to conform. (Jan 2011)

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