American Red

Meniscus

           

The fall afternoon brings a sense of tranquility with it. The sun is warm and beats down in magnificent spires of light only to be cooled off by a gentle wind that shakes the dry leaves from their branches. They get collected into mounds by people raking them together. Every gust of westerly wind is an escape attempt as handfuls of maple leaves scatter back across the lawn.

Inside the Smythe house, there is background noise from a record filling the space between where rented furniture and the handful of possessions do not. The scratching lo-fi sound is soothing to Veronica; as peaceful as her mother running her fingers through her hair at bedtime so long ago. How long had it been now, thirty years? Forty? Time has become a funny thing, like old eyes trying to focus on letters before giving way to glasses.

Veronica spends most of her day reading and researching as many books on demon possession, magic, witchcraft and the occult as she can find. When she completes one book, she picks up another, devouring shelves of literature in the course of a week as well as her sanity.

Once Veronica's reading starts to give her a headache, she has herself some tea and cleans up around the house, plotting the night's meal or simply trying to meditate. They don't own a TV or a computer to bog them down with needless entertainment, that's what music is for.

The unique pitch of Patsy Cline's, I Fall to Pieces, echoes off the bare walls in a way only vinyl allows. A classic voice such as Patsy's deserves only the best medium, Veronica thought.

As Patsy bellows from the makeshift library, Veronica is out in the kitchen washing out her coffee mug of Earl Grey from moments before. Her wrap is secured back around her face, covering her mouth in the attempt to prevent speech at all cost. At this time of day, the boys would be home any moment and it was best to be prepared in case she had to step outside.

The devil inside has been trying to consume her for nearly fifty years. She's remained as mute as possible for the last decade, employing a wrap to give people a reason to know she can't speak and deter her from trying. Something happened a decade ago where Veronica knew, one more time in using her charm, as the boys have coined the phrase, and she'd be gone forever.

It's been like slowly pouring water into a glass, never knowing when it's to the tippy top until the meniscus is warning that the next part is an overflow. Also, there is this feeling inside her mouth. The closest thing she can attribute it to is an itch; not a physically itch, but a mental one she can't scratch. And every time it tingles or tickles in the torturous ways itches do, she wonders if that's what hell will be like, itching. No fire or ice or repeated torments of bad deeds, but an itch that never gets scratched.

As the sound of tap water ends, there is still some faint din of noise not associated with the music in the background. It takes some effort, but Veronica attempts to turn down the noise coming in through one ear while trying to pick up noise out of the other with a slight adjustment of her head cocked to the side. It's the sound of two boys arguing; her boys.

Foregoing shoes, Veronica is outside before she knows what to expect. The sun beats down onto her sensitive, indoor eyes and the breeze causes a prickle of goose flesh to pop out along her bare forearms.

"That's not the point!" Roadie is shouting.

"I don't need your permission either, I am old enough to make decisions on my own now, thank you," Errol replies back in a more even tone, though louder than he normally ever does.

Veronica snaps loudly, her way of trying to divert attention to her. They continue to bicker, Errol facing away from Veronica and Roadie straddling his bike unsure if he wants to dismount it yet.