Young Writers Society

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I've only got so far with this but I don't have a feel for where I should take it or end it. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated

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Her past relationships - a short daisy chain of affairs, strung around her neck like a criminal in a mug shot. It stained her, rendered her void, like something that passed its sell by date years ago.

A mass of unworn dresses hung dormant in her dusty wardrobe, inanimate like her lips. She studied her surroundings, her small bubble of privacy, easily burst like her overflowing heart, now drained and scabbed. She felt encapsulated in her swelling blister of gloom.

She moved to the bed and brought the greying covers to her nose in desperation, trying to seek out traces of his scent, his addictive stench. Crawling over the bed she continues her hunt, seeking out her prey until she finds him. Suddenly she is swept from the dungeon into the memories she so badly craved.

They were young again – too young. Although she was lost in her memories, she could still feel the fabric of her pyjamas rub against her. She was struck – pyjamas? She almost laughed out loud, remembering the days when they would jump into bed together, naked as piglets. Those were fun and frolicking days. But yes, they were too young, far too young. He was gone now anyway.

She reached over the edge of the bed and picked up his old work jumper. It lay like part of a corpse. As smelly and as ragged as it was from its life on the floor for these past few weeks, she was still sure she could detect him on it. She cuddled it to her breast, like a child.

Struggling, she pushed herself over in front of the mirror and was shocked by what she seen. The thousand little bottles and jars that she would use and apply lovingly each day, lay in hibernation. She looked at her tear streaked face, and her hair, which used to be a waterfall down her back, now resembled an ebony coloured haystack. Her ancient make up, of which had made her pillow resemble the Shroud of Turin, had gathered under her eyes to create shadows. She almost felt like a shadow.

Her figure had been a Marilyn Monroe hourglass, of which every woman in her street envied with a passion. Now it had diminished to the bare bone. She neither noticed nor cared. Figure or not, she was only half a body now.

She turned to face the bed, the focal point. She watched her memories play out in front of her like a film. They were in a violent fight, his strength overpowering her lithe frame. Bringing her to the ground he stared into her eyes like a maniac, his breath racing to catch up with him. He almost wondered what he was doing, wrestling with his own wife like this, until he came back to the present and seen the stupid woman before him – she deserves everything she gets, he thought. Her shadow scrambled across the wall, away from him. He almost fell over trying to catch her, like a hungry lion. The hair of which he had once caressed and stroked, he found himself grabbing for it, wanting to pull every last strand from her head. Their foul words and accusations sprayed across the wall, like blood at the scene of a murder. She almost reached for the popcorn until she realised it was her imagination. It disappeared like the flick of a switch. She was in the dark again, like she always had been.

She floated, lifelessly, through to the en-suite. Her heart almost skipped a beat – his aftershave. She ran her fingers around the glass and brought it to her heart. Dropping to a heap in the corner, she traced the letters with her fingers. It wasn’t him, but it was a part of him. She felt grateful that he had left it for her.

She crept towards the bedroom door, cautious of what might be behind it. Gripping the handle, she could almost feel his presence on the other side. She stared down the abandoned hallway. The door he walked out, precious memorabilia. She visualised herself, all those weeks ago, almost hanging onto his heels and his words like she did the day her own father left - history repeating itself, only she was the distraught wife this time.

Rachel had left, what seemed like years ago, to stay with a friend. She wandered through to her bedroom, a ghost haunting her own house. She sat down on the unmade bed with the dirty knickers strewn across it and posters of the latest boy bands grinning down from the wall. The feelings that encompassed her all those years ago, while listening to her own mother begging him to stay, crashed over her like fierce waves. She wished she could be the angry teenager again. It was so much easier when she could blame everyone else.

She’s agape. He beams at her from the delicate heart shaped frame. His arm around their daughter, their candyfloss curls the same in every way but length. She felt like smashing it against the wall, like a brick of self control, breaking down the walls. This reminded her of something she might have done in a fit of adolescent angst, a cry for attention perhaps, but this time there was no one’s attention to catch. Not even his.

She travelled back to those breezy summers, when they clattered home together, sharing cheap cider and let their carefree laughter drift up into the humid night air and the stars. He’d always loved her laugh. He’d wished he could catch it, like a rare species.

She tried to recall when the transformation occurred in him, into this brutal monster. Was it her? Should she have tried harder for him? Where had she gone wrong?

He’d never said it outright, but he’d always hinted at it - Rachel, her dearest Rachel. She almost felt sick with rage that he would have the nerve to blame their own flesh and blood, their creation.

If he didn’t want her he didn’t have to have her. He would be the one missing out.

The kitchen was host to their frayed emotions, mixed and baked together like a poisoned pie. Shards of green glass littered the floor. His carefully prepared dinner, splattered on the wall. Her lipstick smudged around the rim of a wine glass. Bridget had never been one of those kinds of women, the kind that left delicate traces of their perfume clinging to the air. No, Bridget was much bolder than that, more obvious. She left her mark, on cups, on cutlery and on men.