Stories Without Words. An Endless source of inspiration (Check the links).
Gently, she placed the phone back in its holster. She didn’t want him bothering her anymore. Every day, without fail, she would get a call from the same number. The same old, tired voice on the other end of the line would tell her that she would only mess her life up again, and he would have to bail her out. Two hundred dollars, maybe, or a trip to AA. A Weight Watchers membership. A loan. A lawyer.
She didn’t need him, even. Sure, he gave her money. But he shouldn’t, really. He was just clinging to the last vestiges of her infancy, clutching at the baby he still thought her to be. Her feet were jabbed into the floor as they carried her to the old ’70s couch that sat dismally across from her small TV. He had given it to her. She could have bought her own furniture. Or found some, by the side of the road. Someone else’s reject. She hurled herself down on top of it, hoping for something dramatic–a spring breaking loose, maybe, or a cushion ripping. Her red dress echoed the screaming color of her brain, throbbing with anger. Her head was swelling, it really was. She pictured it inflating, a giant red balloon, floating away from her. Her forehead whined its discomfort.
She stood up, lay down, and slid herself below the couch. She was six again, staring up at the bare metal, the yellowing polyester batting poking out from the gaps like fungus.
She didn’t need him. “I’m a grownup”, she told herself. “I am.”