Words this week: Serendipity, perspicaciously, culminating
Submitted by: Victoria Diaz
Part 3: 1000 – 1500 words (or so)
I roll my eyes and shake my head at him the moment his lips move. I hope he knows how angry I am. He frowns and mouths words I can’t hear because of the thunderous roar of rain joined now by thunder. As his lips move his face reddens, and his mouth opens wider. I’m sure he’s getting louder but I still can’t hear him.
When the rain let up his face is soft and returning to a normal shape of pink, but I’m just beginning to boil. “Fuck you!” I burst without giving him a chance to speak another word. I step through the doorway, exposing my suitcase to him–a culmination of our relationship. With each step I take down the hallway I realize I have no intention of coming home again. He reaches out for me but I sidestep and head for the front door.
“Madison! Wait. We should talk. Please, Madison. Wait.”
I want to stop. It hurts me to listen to his pleas and walk away. I don’t know why it hurts. But I’m older now and I need freedom. Maybe he’ll get the help he needs if I leave.
At the front door I turn the handle and pull the door open so hard it slams against the wall, creating a crack in the drywall nobody will fix.
“Serendipity!” Jessica yells from my front yard. A favorite word of hers since we watched the movie Serendipity together last week with the hunk John Cusack. I’m not sure if Jessica is implying serendipity because I walked out the door as she approached it, or because she looks like a drown rat from being caught in the flash storm, and somehow that’s a good thing. Jessica’s large inviting smile fades when she sees my face. I crack a smile with my lips but my eyes aren’t into it. “Or maybe not so serendipity.” She takes a few steps toward me and asks, “Are you okay? I know it’s raining, but the worst is over. You should have been outside a few minutes ago.” She throws her hair back like a supermodel with long luscious hair, only her hair is stringy and short.
I raise my chin high and close the door behind me, cutting off the sound of dad yelling my name. I know Jessica hears him calling because her eyes linger on the door like it is still open and dad is standing on the other side. “Come on,” I say.
Being the good friend she is, she follows me down my driveway; not like a puppy follows a master, but like a pupil follows a mentor. I’m almost clear of my yard when I trip on the newspaper and land on me knee. I cry out, but I’m too angry to feel a lot of pain. Just before I kick the newspaper across the yard I get a glimpse of an article subtitle. It says Perspicacious Investors Sell their Tech Stocks Long Before the Market Crashes; Investigations are pending.