Modernism Creative writing Essay

She awoke with an ache In her neck and the bitter taste of yesterday on her tongue. It was a Thursday. Tuesdays had tended been friendly to her, Thursdays however had never treated her kindly. One of her happiest Tuesdays had been near a year before this morning; where after realizing that her time of the month hadn’t occurred for over one, it was tested and became apparent that she was pregnant. How or why the protection did not function was a mystery to her, for in those days she had always been rather meticulous with such matters.

When and with whom the conception had occurred, however, was clear – the father was an accountant named George Peterson, and he was her partner – Bridges partner. Though the situation had been unexpected; the prospect of them living together and raising a child had had her heart buoyant and her mind racing over how to inform him of their new treasure. She had told him on the Thursday and his reaction to the information had also been unexpected, although this unanticipated response did not bring her any happiness.

George had not been elated by the idea of being a father, and after hearing her news ad handed Bridget the sum suitable for an abortion without missing a beat. Without asking her how she felt or even articulating why the potential child ought to be disposed of , his decision was made final. Her partner had called his doctor and booked an appointment within 10 minutes, all the while Bridget had been still, staring fixedly at the notes in her hands as the world disintegrated before her. Three weeks from then, on another Thursday, the hope in her body was extracted and terminated.

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From The Thursday onward she was changed. Since then, she was forever tired and forever grieving the unreduced. It was a grief that had her hollow but heavy, so that any attempt of activity would require the effort comparable to that of an worm passing through a concrete brick – and whether or not she made any progress could not change the utterly finished state that she would be left in. Although many of her companions had escaped her since The Thursday, George Peterson endured and never left his position as her partner.

Bridget grew weary of him however, as his attitude towards her condition strayed from being comforting and became that of exasperation. Although, yes, she was undoubtedly exasperated with herself to the mint even where she was only ever content when unconscious; she felt resentment towards her partner – for not only did call the end her last happiness (upon Just a few seconds of hearing it), but he had never apologized for forcing his apathetic request onto her, never acknowledged his manner as problematic, and never even realized it as the root of Bridge’s decline.

The topic of his Ignorance and apology was what Bridget hoped to bring to conversation during their lunch together at his apartment, which was to occur in 2 hours. She lay on her side and gazed at the wall as the strokes of paint left years ago ransomed into images of wolves howling in the wind, men drinking around a fire, a child running from a spear. She contemplated methods for which she could confront him, as the the empty house’s quiet shifted from muteness to an absence of sound became a deafening void in her head and she quickly retreated from her bed to collect her clothing and wash.

The water brought her a warmth that was persisting and comforting, and brought her a sense of contentment that was rivaled only by the rest in sleep. The tiles stole the warmth from her feet as she stepped out and looked at her fogged reflection, a faded ghost watched her. She changed into a sensible skirt and blouse and left with a spray of perfume. The artificial stench of sweet pink rose overwhelmed the chemical fragrance of toilet cleaner. She attempted to eat but found that she could not hold any substance down.

She rinsed her mouth with water, 5 times, and headed out the door. The path was damp and the wind sharp so that her teeth would chatter at a rate she could not measure. As she walked she imagined the air to be veiled by an invisible mist, a thin vapor that could silence the heart upon prolonged inhalation, a gas that could leave you cold and silent, still and beautiful. She counted her breaths. Upon reaching her temporary destination, a bus stop, she waited.

Hundreds of people traveled in and out of her vision each minute, and though she glanced at each face for at least a second – she could not remember them, and though some would stomp or drag or tumble their way through the streets with a ferocity and determination that she found admirable – none left any impressions or marks on the stone ground beneath them. Despite any human contact the dirtied street remained its own somber self and, if anything, it became more worn from the constant presence of people.

She felt very familiar. After significant mass of people had passed, her highly anticipated means of transport arrived as a gritty metal shell. She entered and the driver gave her a cheery hello with a smile, which was a friendly gesture that she had not been granted for a while. She appreciated it. As she etched through the bus’ corridor, the wet began to fall outside, so that by the time she had reached her seat there was already a considerable amount of it accumulated onto her window.

She counted the raindrops left clinging the glass, as a man a seat in front expressed his disbelief in how women held themselves these days to his neighbor; “l can’t live how women hold themselves these days! What? Are scanty black dresses coupled with orange skin and too-much-makeup what’s in now? Have we reached the era where the drunken bimbo with lips pursed and 13 threads for clothes are trendy!? ” She looked down as spit flew from his lips at the pronunciation of each consonant. “Maybe once these chicks realism that men don’t find trash like that attractive, they’ll actually learn how to be decent… He continued spewing his outrage as his companion smirked, looking down at THE SEXIEST MAN AND WOMAN OF OF THE YEAR on page 39 of the weekly newspaper; displaying a middle-aged man ringing in a grey suit, and beside him a young woman – sitting knees to her chest, all skin bare. Many drops had gathered and fallen and collected and reappeared in her sitting, and from looking at the man in front’s watch she realized that she was considerably late – which was shameful custom that she had become attached to in the recent year.

Finally she reached and Joined the long awaiting street, thirty minutes past the and she reached it through the ease of experience. Although upon meeting the door she encountered a weight anchored throughout her body, and upon looking at this once welcoming face she realized that it now felt foreign. She entered all the same. Carrying herself up the steps that she had counted numerous times before, which were of three-hundred and sixty, she finally rose to his level.

The air was dripping and the tiled floor chipped. At confronting his door she found her built up anxiety suddenly attack her with such a force that she had to catch herself. In front of the entrance she stood, facing the knob, and counted in seconds the number of minutes by which she was late. 37.. A woman’s laugh trilled inside, followed by the echoed bellow of her man. Unconsciously she opened the unlocked door, and beyond it spied his face buried in a young woman’s neck at the far corner of his living room. .. George? ” she wrung, to which his only response was a look of exhaustion. His silence filled the room and left her empty. It was an emptiness that she had not accustomed to, one that engulfed her body so that all weight abandoned her and she lifted herself from the aching hollowness which had haunted her for an unbearable number of days. She welcomed the soft numbness with enormous gratitude and left him, letting this strange world deflate around her.


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