Wilomn
New member
She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally decided to walk through the door.
The instructions had been clear and concise on pages yellowed with age and smudged by countless dirty fingers and thumbs. She wondered how many had made it through to the other side after reading it.
1. No weapons of any kind.
2. No pens.
3. No pencils.
4. No outside food or drink.
5. Visiting hours were 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. Monday through Friday and 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. Saturday and Sunday.
6. No overnight visitors.
7. No animals of any kind allowed.
8. No one under 12 years old permitted within.
9. New or clean clothes could be dropped off at the visitor’s entrance on Fridays from Noon until 3 p.m. or Saturday from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. only.
10. Violence of any type would not be tolerated or permitted.
The book said it was for her own good; that she had chosen to enter and for treatment to be effective, the rules must be adhered to. The smudged yellowed book said that rule breakers would be disciplined, but did not detail in what manner. She thought the last line of the book, “With perseverance, fortitude and luck, success was possible,” was rather ominous.
Possible. Not probable. Not guaranteed. Not assumed. Possible. It could happen. It might happen. But even that remote possibility was more probable than her achieving it by herself. Hadn’t she been trying and failing for the last three years? Did she really have anything left to lose?
There was a black and white picture of a large swan serenely swimming into the sunset on a calm tree shrouded pond on the cover of the book. It looked peaceful. She imagined that she’d see the swan on the inside, that it represented her desire to be something else. To fly away from where she was. To be someplace new, where no one knew her, where no one knew what had happened. Someplace where maybe, finally, she could forget. Or at least forgive.
It didn’t really matter though. One way or another, this life was done. If they couldn’t help there was always the Braxton Ave. Bridge. The water beneath it was fast, cold, and deep. It welcomed everyone.
She wasn’t quite ready for that though, not yet. Some part of her, some small scared part still clung to hope, still refused to give up, to give in. She had her father to thank for that. She wished she could. Thank him. She can’t. He had been there when it happened. With her mother and her son and his father, they had been on the bench, watching the boats sail past.
She hoped again that wherever they were, if they were anywhere, they were all together, keeping each other company. It didn’t help much, thinking that. Nothing did. Nothing ever did.
They said the driver had almost three times the legal limit when he crashed into them. They said his license had been suspended ten months earlier for driving under the influence. They said he had been ticketed twice more since then and that his truck should have been impounded. They said she shouldn’t blame herself.
How could she not? It was her fault. If she hadn’t served him, If she had cut him off when she knew she should have… Well, she had been down that road a million times too many.
“Don’t swans mate for life?” she thought as the door closed behind her. “I wonder why the one in the book is all alone.”
The instructions had been clear and concise on pages yellowed with age and smudged by countless dirty fingers and thumbs. She wondered how many had made it through to the other side after reading it.
1. No weapons of any kind.
2. No pens.
3. No pencils.
4. No outside food or drink.
5. Visiting hours were 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. Monday through Friday and 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. Saturday and Sunday.
6. No overnight visitors.
7. No animals of any kind allowed.
8. No one under 12 years old permitted within.
9. New or clean clothes could be dropped off at the visitor’s entrance on Fridays from Noon until 3 p.m. or Saturday from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. only.
10. Violence of any type would not be tolerated or permitted.
The book said it was for her own good; that she had chosen to enter and for treatment to be effective, the rules must be adhered to. The smudged yellowed book said that rule breakers would be disciplined, but did not detail in what manner. She thought the last line of the book, “With perseverance, fortitude and luck, success was possible,” was rather ominous.
Possible. Not probable. Not guaranteed. Not assumed. Possible. It could happen. It might happen. But even that remote possibility was more probable than her achieving it by herself. Hadn’t she been trying and failing for the last three years? Did she really have anything left to lose?
There was a black and white picture of a large swan serenely swimming into the sunset on a calm tree shrouded pond on the cover of the book. It looked peaceful. She imagined that she’d see the swan on the inside, that it represented her desire to be something else. To fly away from where she was. To be someplace new, where no one knew her, where no one knew what had happened. Someplace where maybe, finally, she could forget. Or at least forgive.
It didn’t really matter though. One way or another, this life was done. If they couldn’t help there was always the Braxton Ave. Bridge. The water beneath it was fast, cold, and deep. It welcomed everyone.
She wasn’t quite ready for that though, not yet. Some part of her, some small scared part still clung to hope, still refused to give up, to give in. She had her father to thank for that. She wished she could. Thank him. She can’t. He had been there when it happened. With her mother and her son and his father, they had been on the bench, watching the boats sail past.
She hoped again that wherever they were, if they were anywhere, they were all together, keeping each other company. It didn’t help much, thinking that. Nothing did. Nothing ever did.
They said the driver had almost three times the legal limit when he crashed into them. They said his license had been suspended ten months earlier for driving under the influence. They said he had been ticketed twice more since then and that his truck should have been impounded. They said she shouldn’t blame herself.
How could she not? It was her fault. If she hadn’t served him, If she had cut him off when she knew she should have… Well, she had been down that road a million times too many.
“Don’t swans mate for life?” she thought as the door closed behind her. “I wonder why the one in the book is all alone.”
