This is a true story in so far as related to the location. Concerning the events, my memory remains a bit faulty with regard to the particulars. The accuracy of the telling I leave among yourselves to decide.
Standing at the edge of a spit of land, a broad lake was before her. This was land's end, jutting out to form one edge of an arc defining a cove. Wind blew at her hair. She pulled the chaos back into order, pushing the escaped locks under a woolen cap. The cap! Rolf had bought it for her before Christmas. The occasion had been the evening they went to the street market. Events remained clear but for the details. After the purchase, there had been an argument and he had walked off. The topic has since been forgotten. Another in a series of manufactured situations Rolf would contrive to rationalize a reaction. Days passed into the new year before he again tried his key in the lock. Foolishly, she allowed herself to be on the other side when it turned. Another episode ended, returning to reset. The proper coldness she was at ease with of two bodies in one bed was resumed with this man. Ages ago it seemed, across a blur of time: the events strung together as beads on a string.
She adjusted her footing on the slippery rock. It was worn smooth here. The bag remained beside her on the ground. The content's weight kept it upright. Another gust of wind blew into her form, pushing her a step forward. She reflexively took a half step back.
In the distance, the wind was blowing white caps across the lake surface. The massive walls of glacier cut rift channeled force through this narrow valley. Wind was only one of the manifestations. On the far shore the rock wall rose straight out of the water to a towering vertical height. She had to tilt her head to see the ridge, and had done that several times while walking out to the point. The ridge line snaked away to disappear around a corner. Eventually it joined the other side of the split chasm, which rose equally high. This had once been a mountain of a single granite rock. Ice and time have had its way with it, carving the peak twain.
She stood upon a rock wave of deep rubble bed fragments remaining after the glacier's retreat. To her left the shore rounded away distant, out of the cove. On that shore a deep forest grew to the water's edge. The trees were crowded together impossibly dense. A denseness that absorbed light before any could reach the mossy undergrowth. Only mushrooms thrived in such a gloom. Though she couldn't remember being here, it was familiar, as though the panorama had been known countless times- and what had been before.
Standing here, there was purpose before her. She thought of it as a conclusion. A first time standing at this shore, at this point, on these smooth rocks. She chided herself: focus. The purpose before her was quiet in the bag. It would wait. When she was ready, it would obey what was asked of it. There was stillness in thoughts here. Time was hers. Focus.
Tranquility had been with her since the early morning. This was an unusual experience, not commonly known. The typical day-to-day was a blur of thoughts and words and actions. Stillness, while not wholly unknown, remained elusive. Even when others would find relaxation after a lovely heavy meal, she could not. Her portions would be of such quantity a large man would be shy of piling on. Those around the table with an average constitution would naturally become groggy after such excessive consumption. She, however, would carry on talking a nervously animated performance before the dull glassy eyes of her audience. Even espresso would not slow her hyperactivity down.
When at last she would excuse herself from the table, the dinner companions would be glad of the respite, though it was only a brief interlude. She would find her way to the WC and directly into a stall. Before her would be the porcelain receptical. The routine was a practiced one. A yanked handful of toilet paper was prepared, laid in balanced layers, equal distance, without a wrinkle. This upon she would kneel as though before an altar. And in a way, it was. With a hand pulling her thin blond hair back, the movement began. It started with a relaxation in the lower gut. When the focus became upon the meal stretching at the stomach, the strong convulsion waves would begin to build. There was a pleasure in the sensation of the tightening as the cycles increased. When they became of sufficient intensity, the waves were released, squeezing the stomach, ejaculating the contents in a vomit fountain directed into the depths of the bowl. Practiced distance was maintained against any splash back. This was usually a sufficient precaution. A second wave followed the first immediately, seeking release. The gut was explored, as though evaluating if there was any offering remaining. When a sufficient volume was discovered, a third squeeze would pass this remainder. Satisfied, a fresh pull of tissue was dabbed and blotted. The swirling morass was observed for consistency before rising. Tissue remaining was used to mop any splash overflow before the final commitment to oblivion with the flush.
YOU ARE READING
A Fine DayMystery / Thriller
A Fine Day, a short story. Part, the first, in Rabbitry, a pentalogy. Standing before a precipice of her own making, the cost of a life hiding behind beauty is required to be paid in full. Could it be that the currency one acquires will not suffice...