Short Story: Private Prison

An excerpt from upcoming novel, written 2019

I walk to the dark wood blinds that have become the horizontal bars of my prison. Four of the perky Catholic ladies from Bunko bounce by wearing short shirts and leggings that accentuate the curve of their bums.

The carpet begins to scratch my feet from standing so long. Sherwyn Williams Farmclay walls smell of Mr. Clean and the new dust settling on the blinds catches my attention. It sparkles and floats like little shooting stars onto the tops of my jail bars. 

The kitchen phone is nearby, ever ready to ring and I think I should go back to the garage where my search for the spark plugs for my car began this morning. 

I love the gardens I have built, but I do not love this house. The stairs between rooms confound me and I and the kids often trip on them. I still have a fresh rug burn on my kneecap. 

Up to the kitchen, down to the living room- up up up to the bedrooms — down to the laundry room..... it all must be in order. White Persian cats turn their lazy poofball heads from the sofas of living room #2 and regard me with disdain and I clomp between rooms. It’s never necessary to actually walk the dogs. The retriever, the sharpei and the shitzu remain on my tail for most activities, until the Kirby comes out. The vacuum lines have to be pleasant to as not to upset him when he inspects them tonight. Acrid rubber fillls the top floor, the 18’ ceilings, I am thinking of the bouncy women... and their rejection... my gross stupidity and how fascinating they are. I imagine their easy conversations between sips of rich red wine, the trips they take and their trips to spend money they make themselves.

I have burned through another vacuum belt. 

I have 1.5 hours before I pick them up. Down down down to the living room, up up up to the kitchen, down down to the garage and then up and down and around - leave the sliding glass door open so I can hear the phone, my ankle monitor,  if he calls. 

Last week he came home in the middle of the day- I had been deep in the cavernous basement, in the art studio he had allowed me to have. 

I take the shovel out the back door. The dogs pant and watch, smiling, oblivious to my storm, my tumult-my disequilibrium that drove me to do this. 

I dig. 

It is day three.

I grunt and breathe and dig and the rocks chip away and make the spade into a gleaming, sharp knife. 

It’s wide now and I am reaching steps of six feet down.’

‘It will be glorious’ I think.