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Rituals
©Jen Christabel 2005
Again, she witnessed the same daily ritual. He came slowly down the stairs and, not speaking, picked up his gardening magazine and locked himself in the bathroom for an hour. On emerging he made himself a cup of tea; this had to stand for precisely five full minutes before he would drink it. He picked up his tea and sat down in his old, worn chair, and placed the cup of the ring-stained table beside him.
Cybil watched him, as she did every morning, putting on his shoes before going into the garden.
The garden, oh god the garden; his domain, his world, all his, his, his.
One sock, then he sat back in his chair and watched telly for a few minutes; then the other sock and again, he relaxed. Leaning forward, as if it exerted him, he forced his shoe on and tied his bows, not once, but three times and eased himself back into the chair. Once more, he bent forward and placed the other shoe on his foot and triple-tied the bows. Cybil glared at him.
‘For god’s sake, why don’t you just put your bloody shoes on and go off outside.’
She never used to speak to him in this way, but these days she threw caution to the wind and spoke how she thought fit.
‘Does it bother you dear?’ He replied, sneering at her. His eyes narrowed into hateful pinpricks; there was no love there.
‘Yes it does! You have the same ritual every day. I just can’t stand watching you!’ Cybil blurted out.
They had been married for many years; more years than Cybil cared to remember. He spoke to her in monotones, that is if he spoke to her at all. There was an air of ignorance from him surrounding her precious writing, and this stung her heart. He had always been handy with his fists in his younger days and, as the years had gone on, Cybil had developed a hard outer shell and retaliated.
She snorted in derision, and flicked through the cable channels again, then again, and again for the last time.
‘Why is there nothing on telly!’ she bellowed at the tv screen.
She picked up her knitting and turned it over in her hands and threw it down on the floor.
‘Knitting is for old ladies!’
She finished off her coffee and, noticing it had gone cold, genteelly spat it back into the cup.
Cybil glanced around the room and ran her fingers through her curled, grey hair. Her eyes darted from place to place as her mind meandered, probed and sought some sustenance.
‘Right let’s do something constructive,’ she said aloud as she walked over to her pc.
Switching it on, she waited for the screen to appear and then clicked on ‘Word’. The glare of the empty page yawned at her as she stared into its white space. She typed her opening words:
The body lay motionless in the living room, a knife stuck out from the chest……
And then she stopped.
‘I can’t write, I can’t write!’ she yelled.
Placing both hands on the top of her head, she rubbed vigorously, as if trying to alert something in her brain that just wouldn’t come forward. She shook her head, shook her thoughts and turned off the computer.
Cybil meandered back into her living room and once again tried to find something remotely interesting to watch on tv. With a blustering huff she turned it off and decided to go upstairs for a sleep. Sleep always bought solace and ideas for her writing and today was going to be no exception. She gave a glance into the living room. His chair, old and worn, stood out against the newer, tapestried three piece and mahogany furniture. She sighed and carefully negotiated the stairs to her bedroom.
After popping one of her sleeping pills, she drifted away peacefully, but thoughts of her husband popped into her head.
‘Why do you have rituals?’
‘Don’t talk to me like that!’
‘Why don’t you hold conversations with me?’
‘Oh how I wish you would just go away and leave me alone in peace.’
Cybil’s spiteful, yet carefully chosen, words echoed round in her brain as she slowly drifted off to sleep.
The time drifted on and the rain began to fall. The sudden noise hammering on the window panes disturbed Cybil and she woke with a start. Rubbing her eyes, she looked at the clock - 1:15pm.
‘I’ve been asleep for three hours!’
Such a deep and long sleep had made her lethargic. She shook herself to her senses and forced her feet into threadbare slippers and carefully tackled the stairs. At her age it was becoming increasingly difficult, especially having arthritis affecting her hands and knees. After safely landing on the last step she walked into the living room and glanced at the back of her husband’s chair
‘Huh!’ she spat the words out like venom.
Cybil felt rejuvenated following her sleep and, switching on her pc, sat in front of the screen smiling broadly. She began to type
The body lay motionless in the living room, a knife stuck out from the chest. No sound could be heard, no breathing, no rasping. The man’s lips were blue with the shadows of death….
‘This is coming along nicely dear,’ she called into the living room, ‘ I said this is coming along nicely, can’t you hear me?’ and she walked into the room to confront her husband.
His form was still and quiet, and the knife protruded from the centre of his chest. Cybil smiled to herself and returned to her computer, repeating her thoughts aloud:
‘Why do you have rituals?’
‘Don’t talk to me like that!’
‘Why don’t you hold conversations with me?’
‘Oh how I wish you would just go away and leave me alone in peace.’
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