When Everything Seemed Possible (Excerpt)

By Rich Henry

Copyright 1996

From behind a door we hear screams intermittent with a heavy

sobbing. A harrowing, empty sobbing.

It seems like it has been going on for many days.

A terrifying screams explodes out of a scratchy, throaty

voice.

A resounding thud is heard.

Silence.

Then heavy, shorts breaths are heard gasping, choking for

air.

We are repulsed.

After twenty minutes of sitting breathlessly outside the door;

the placid murmurs of sleep drift under the door.

Standing up and reaching for the knob, it is slowly turned.

The knuckles grip it tightly to counter act the slipping of the

sweaty hands. Slowly she enters, careful not to kick anything or

cough. Lifting her eyes slowly, she prepares herself for the

devastation.

She takes a shallow breath and is surprised by the peaceful,

Victorian aura of the small room. Everything is neat. Everything

is clean, almost antiseptic.

The curtains are open and they bow form the breeze of the open

window. The late afternoon wind rustles the trees. The low winter

sun blanches the room. The pastel wallpaper glows and deceivingly

gives one the impression that this is the room of a young girl,

perhaps eleven or twelve. The only pox on the room is the clump

curled up on the rug. The figure is thin beneath the oversized

clothes. The face is striking but seems to hang on the bones of

the face. The hair appears to be cut to style but in need of

washing. It isn't stringy or oily. It just looks a bit flat.

The intruder stands between the bed and the window; the door

is at the opposite end of the room. She sees paper with writing on

it, lying on the desk. It looks like it was recently written. She

cannot read it from where she stands and she cannot get closer

because of the figure on the floor and because the large hard chair

leaves no room for standing.

Every now and again she reminds herself to breathe. She does,

slowly and deliberately. The figure does not stir. She notices

the sickly skin and turns away. Not pale, yellow.

The yellowish skin color tips the scale and she succumbs to a

feeling of nausea. She looks at the figure again and quickly

averts her eyes and covers her mouth. Tears burn in her eyes, as

does the fading shining last rays of sunlight. The tears roll off

the back of her hand. She begins to feel trapped. At any cost she

must get out of the room. And although the yellow limbs haven't

stirred, she foresees that they will and very soon.

She looks out the window. The second story height and

blinding whitewashed walls start to make her dizzy. She feels like

someone is squeezing her bladder. She leaps as quietly as possible

over the form and slides out the door. Stopping, she realizes that

she should close the door. Her throat tightens as she turns and

pulls the door shut as quietly as possible.

She steps into the bathroom and gets a glass of water. She

drinks it, water running down her chin. Looking at her reflection,

she is bathed in sweat. Only then does she realize why she came in

so quickly.

After.

She pats a damp cloth against her face. She finds she is

unable to stop the perspiration. She opens the window and leans

her head out. It is just past dusk and the last few warm breezes

of the day blow down through the fields. The night has no moon but

is not cool. She finds no relief in the night air. She finds no

relief anywhere.