3f#23 – the struggle
Sometimes Casey wanted to break things, punch people, kick. Not in response to anything particular, but when the pressure built, fury like shaken soda against all reasonableness and courtesy.
School had reconvened for Michaelmas, James boarding, Casey at the local parish school. Days were busy, and boring. She procrastinated.
James came for an exeat that Saturday. Having looked forward to it, Casey found the afternoon deflated, like so many nice things in the having. James beat her twice at Scrabble. He spoke of rugby.
She went into the kitchen, leaned against the sink, and gazed out gray window at the rain. “I’d like Mr. Prior back now, please,” she whispered. “And Marky. They’ve been gone long enough.”
The window did not answer. She bit the edge of her tongue and returned to the drawing room via the letter table, where she used a blood-red pencil to insert an H in the crest adorning the Rector’s correspondence box. in God we tHrust
“Where’s the lemonade?” James demanded. She said nothing, but set on him with fists and feet. He took the blows, not turning, not fighting back, permitting the struggle to do with them what it would, until Casey felt herself torn from him by the Rector’s hands.
“What on earth!” the Rector exclaimed.
James squinted where she had punched him, issuing an excuse, rote and haiku-like. The Rector constrained her in his arms until she quieted. James looked at her as if he could apply first aid with his eyes.
What is Flash Fiction Friday?
Read the other folks writing this week:
October 3rd, 2009 at 6:25 pm
Nice – I felt as if I was there – taking the blows so Casey could take out her frustrations. And I know that feeling – where nothing but beating something will make the world right again.