Young Writers Society

This had to be the fifth time in the last ten minutes she had flipped her pillow over for the cooler side, and she had already successfully shoved all of the blankets to her husband's side of the bed. She slowly sat up and looked around at all the boxes that still needed unpacking. The Ford industry was booming which made their apartment seem to small for a family. Mark wouldn't settle for less than the perfect American dream life, so here they were in a three level home and a sizable mortgage.

Sighing, Marilyn slid to the edge of the bed and felt around the floor until her toes bumped into the satin soles of her house shoes. With all the energy she could muster, she pushed herself off the edge of their bed and slowly made her way to the bedroom door, careful not to bump into any boxes or furniture in the dead of night. The heavy wooden door creaked, as Marilyn drowsily opened the door. Looking back to make sure Mark was still safe away in dream land, she didn't bother shutting the door in fear of causing more commotion.

Trusting that each step was still beneath her feet, Marilyn held onto the railing as she made her way down the lavender carpeted steps. With each cautious movement, her stomach bounced, and Marilyn couldn't help but wonder about the earthquake that must have been happening within her. The front door didn't make as nearly as much noise as she slipped outside for some fresh air.

Just that morning, Marilyn had painted the front porch swing a pale yellow. Mark had scolded her upon his return home from work. Taking care of the baby and putting dinner on the table should have been her first priority, per Mark. As the subtle wind cooled the sweat dripping down the back of he neck, Marilyn thought of her courtship with Mark.

They both came from the wrong side of the tracks. Growing up, they went on adventures together like hiking and exploring. Even as they grew into teenagers, Marilyn's confidence soared as Mark's belief in her ability to do anything heightened. When the school boys talked about their futures with wives in the kitchens and nursing large families, Mark always made sure to comment about the wife he would have, one who would be creative and assist him in his travels, one who would be his equal. After every conversation, he would wink across the cafeteria or school yard or street, and there Marilyn would be to wink right back, falling more and more in love with each look into those soft grey eyes.

Still going strong in their late twenties, Mark decided to find a job that didn't take so much traveling. A nice office job at Ford. He was sure they were a blossoming business, and soon he could work his way up the proverbial ladder. A quiet librarian life wasn't something Marilyn had envisioned for herself, but it was something Mark had insisted on, so she could get along more with the other wives. It didn't take but a few weeks into the job, for Mark to start coming home and criticizing his home life and why it didn't compare to some of the other CEO's. His list was fairly short:

Marilyn had to quit her job.

Marilyn had to take home economics at the local college to become a better housewife.

Marilyn had to get pregnant.

Marilyn had lost the small town boy she had fallen in love with all those years ago, but she was too old at, twenty-five, to find another husband. Settling was something she was good at, something society had taught her well. As her home economics class ended, Marilyn decided to tell Mark it was a year round class for continuous improvement. The lie smoothed things over because Mark thought she was finally seeing things his way; in actuality, Marilyn had just found a way to keep her job. That was until Lucinda, Mark's boss' wife, came in to check out books on labor and delivery and immediately updated the grapevine that Mrs. Mark Schultz was in fact still employed.

Marilyn rubbed her abdomen in remembrance of the night she came home to Mark's fury. He had come home early to drink and discuss their marriage after hearing about Marilyn's betrayal. Rationalizing with him was impossible, and after he struck her cheek once, Marilyn heart was shattered. After a few obscenities flew past her ears, and an empty beer bottle hit the wall, Mark grabbed her elbow and drug Marilyn upstairs.

The color rose to Marliyn's cheeks, and she quickly shut her eyes trying to ignore the memory that was burned into her brain. Mark had professed her love for her for more than ten years. He had shown her in an array of ways how much he loved her, but the selfish act he pushed upon her that night was no longer love. It was an act of dominance, punishment, and fury. The neighbors were good at ignoring her screams, pleads, and sobs, and when he was done, they also ignored the deafening silence by shutting their blinds and turning up their televisions.

Grabbing the pillar of the house, Marilyn scooted herself out of the porch swing, which was definitely not invented with pregnant women in mind, and shut her house coat, as she made her way back into her smothering house. Coming in with the chills, Marilyn decided to make a cup of hot chocolate before heading back up to bed to the stranger she use to love and adore.

Inhaling the strong aroma and cupping her hands around the warmth of the drink, Marilyn promised her unborn fetus she would never allow such treachery to happen to her. She might look like Mark in every which way, and she might have to suffer the society's ever-changing expectations, but she would no longer be taught to be fearful and have anxiety as her mother does. She would know her worth. Mid-prayer, Marilyn opened her eyes, as a pair of strong, calloused hands gripped her shoulders.

“You're always so tense.” A kiss on her cheek gave him time to think, “Can't sleep?”

A kiss on his cheek gave the growing distance between them time to speak, “oh you know, the baby's awake, so I'm awake.”

**Authors Note: This short story is inspired by the poem I recently wrote called 1950s Housewife- go review that as well in the poetry section. Here's the poem below if you'd just like a little context:  

Slithering under the comforter,

sliding on my house shoes,

and tiptoeing to the bedroom door,

I am careful not to wake you.

As the door creaks,

I watch you to make sure dreamland still envelopes you.

I don't even bother closing the door,

as I walk slowly as first down the lavender carpeted stairs.

I can no longer see them beneath my feet;

I just have to trust that they are there.

As my belly bounces with each step,

I consider the earthquake that must be happening inside.

Making it to the kitchen,

I quiet my insides with just the smell of the hot chocolate.

Wrapping my hands around the warmth of the mug,

I close my eyes and dream of what she'll be like.

Of course, she'll have your light blonde hair,

if any at all.

Of course, she'll inherit your grey-blue eyes,

the ones that dance at my sight.

She'll be chubby and short,

loud and needy,

but what will she get from me;

not much, I hope.

I chance a sip of the steaming mug,

and rub the abdomen that has now become her home.

I didn't invite her here, but her daddy sure did.

How could I refuse those soft hands, those gentle words?

I knew from day one I would be a terrible mother.

So, why are we here in this place?

I know what she'll learn from me,

my anxiety, long nights of worrying and drinking hot chocolate.

For a second, I close my eyes and try to imagine our future life.

A messy living-room, home cooked meals in the oven,

homework strewed across the table, daddy and her in the back yard.

But, where do I fit in?

A messy bun, worn down make-up,

cleaning off the table, regretting her,

yearning for my other life,

the one that never got a chance to blossom.

Before I can open my eyes,

a pair of strong, calloused hands rub my shoulders.

“You're always so tense these days, hmm”

A kiss on my cheek gives him time to think.

“Can't sleep?”

A kiss on his cheek leaves room for the growing distance between us.

How could he ignore my unhappiness so easily?

“Oh you know, the baby's awake, so I'm awake.”