Please, please, please give me any feedback - tell me whether I've addressed the prompt, whether I've incorporated the ideas of the Context, whether the writing style is alright - I'd really appreciate it!
Prompt: Emotions and relationships are as real to us as our material circumstances.She rushed frantically through the dresses hanging in the wardrobe, her breath coming in gasps from running upstairs. She glanced nervously at the clock for a moment, but then resumed her hurried perusal, now and then impatiently swiping at the wetness on her face.
Finally finding what she was looking for, she slipped it on, and immediately she felt better. Now that she was dressed perhaps they would not be late. Looking around the room for her jewellery box, her gaze landed on the golden bottle on the little side table. Debating for a moment, she finally gave in. Well, maybe a little glass would calm her frazzled nerves...
Some time later she pushed herself rather unsteadily to her feet and appraised herself in the mirror. Perfect – her new pearls went with her new dresh – that was, dress – wonderfully.
She hurried downstairs and hesitated for a moment outside the large oak door of the library. Flickering images of a dimly-lit room and two figures flashed unbidden into her mind, but with a renewed effort she forced them away and pushed open the door. She sighed with relief to see them merely talking quietly. That she could handle.
'How do you like my pretty new dress?' she asked brightly as she entered the room.
Allan regarded her warily. 'Blanche –'
Cutting hurriedly across him, pretending she had only just noticed, she exclaimed, 'Why, you boys look so serious – I've never seen anybody so solemn. Remember, tonight's a night for music and laughter – I won't tolerate these long faces.'
Both of them looked up at her with twin expressions of disbelief. She could sense the sharp knife caressing the side of the fragile bubble, about to burst it at any moment and release truths she did not wish to examine. Truths which would destroy her.
The only way she could stop it was by continuing to talk, and so she did. Soon they were all bundled into the car and making their inebriated way to the casino. She was still the only one talking. 'How many romantics does it take to screw in a lightbulb?' she asked the air. Receiving no answer, she replied, 'Why, it doesn't matter, of course – they prefer the candle-light anyway!'
This witticism was greeted with silence which she tried to combat herself, giggling at the joke with faintly hysterical humour, grip on the steering wheel tightening until her knuckles turned white.
But soon enough they were there, and the whirl of music and the murmur of an excited crowd provided a distraction which went hand-in-hand with the pleasant buzz of the liquor. Suddenly she gasped, and tugged her husband's hand. 'The next dance is starting!' And so it was – he followed her reluctantly onto the floor as the first strains of the polka welled up.
As the dance progressed he was distracted and clumsy, stepping out of time, moving in the wrong direction, and worst of all, refusing to meet her eyes. What did he think he would see there if he looked up? she thought with a sudden white-hot stab of anger. Disgust? Accusation? Things she was fast realising she actually felt. And suddenly she could not bear the feel of his hands on her waist, hands which had...
'I know!' she cried suddenly. 'I know... you disgust me!'
For the first time he looked up and for a full second his eyes held hers. Pleading, apologetic, and desperately, desperately sad. But then the spell was broken with his single, choked sob as he broke away from her and ran from the room. For a second she stood, stunned, but then she hurried after him along with a crowd of curious onlookers.
Then as she was trying to make her way to him in the confusion the sound of a shot reverberated, and even through the disorienting press of bodies around her she knew something was wrong.
Trying with renewed vigour to push through the crowd, she was stopped as someone pulled at the sleeve of her new dress. 'Don't look – don't go closer. The Grey boy, he –'
He what? Wrenching herself away, not caring that the sleeve tore, she finally broke through the crowd.
Oh.She began to tremble violently and forced herself to look away. That... mess of blood and brain matter could not possibly be him. And she might have believed herself if she hadn't recognised the new suit the thing was wearing, the suit she had bought for him, the suit which was now forever destroyed, much like its wearer...
She began to retch and choke and sob all at the same time and she leant heavily against a tree at the edge of the lake, trying to restore the strength to her shaking knees.
By the time she felt equal to standing again the crowd had dispersed, and someone had removed the grisly sight which had marred the beauty of the lakeside. Taking herself over to the spot she tried to imagine that nothing had occurred.
Impossible. The dark pool on the pier told its own story.
For a moment she stood undecided, but then she tore a long strip off the bottom of her new dress. Kneeling on the cold ground she used it to try and mop up the already-congealing liquid.
When the material was fully saturated, she made her unsteady way to the lake's edge. Pulling off her new pearl necklace, she used the dripping strip of cloth to wrap it. For a moment she held the bundle in her hands with her head bowed, lips moving as if in prayer, but then she flung it as far as she could into the lake.
Carefully and meticulously washing her hands in the lake, scrubbing her skin until it was pink and raw, she finally made her way back to the spot and took a deep breath.
She could have cried. Despite her best efforts the stench of death and destruction permeated the air, so thick it took the form of something physical, an oily liquid coating her lungs and poisoning her with every breath.
Pulling her bottle of expensive twenty-five-dollars-an-ounce perfume from her purse, she sprayed the surrounding air. Sprayed, sprayed, sprayed until every last drop was spent.
Then dropping the empty bottle in the dust, she slowly began the long walk home.
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