Silence

He wished he hadn’t spoken those last words.

He wished he could take them back. In his head they were reversing back into his mouth like an old 45 record being pushed backward against the needle.

But he couldn’t.

Her face creased, momentarily. Her eyes were full of hurt and pain. She was staring at him then looked down, her head and shoulders beaten and drooping.

The room went really really quiet, not that comfortable silence of two people secure in each others presence but a ‘cut the air’ almost menacing feel that left him wanting to escape.

They both just stood, still. Neither appearing to know what to say next. He shuffled his feet, noticing the grey green scuff on his white trainers and mentally noting to clean them soon.

Still nothing was said.

He looked over at her feet; they were naked, clean and beautiful, beautiful in a way that only female feet can be. Each toe nail glazed with a pearlescent pink varnish, immaculately done, no chips or messy edges.

Her feet were still, unmoving as she was, head down, body slightly stiff but controlled.

He just wanted her to speak. If she got angry that would be his punishment. She should scream at him, unfurling the hurt into him. He would accept it happily; he would welcome her anger. He would look up and listen, blinking in all the right places, accepting of whatever hurts she would stab at him – just to make it ok. She could list his numerous faults, his physical abnormalities, his weaknesses his tactlessness. He knew them all so well.

She just had to break the silence, to make it be alright.

Maybe he should list them himself; maybe he could throw himself at her mercy, beg and plead for her anger. Maybe he could say he didn’t mean it. That he was sorry.

He just needs her to break the silence.

Dix

This is the result of a writing exercise I did today. I really enjoyed it and felt I had created something I liked and has potential. The exercise started with He wished he .... and we wrote for approx 15 mins.