Prison Paradise

Prison Paradise
The sun was unusually hot for the late afternoon, the woman thought as she slowly hobbled her way along her front porch. Settling her tired frame on the porch swing, she haphazardly fluffed the worn pillows behind her back. Her arthritis was acting up today, a tell take sing that rain was on the way. So much for that know-it-all weather man, she scoffed to herself, as her body slowly conformed to the contours of the swing.
Maine was beautiful in the summer, and especially so at the end of the day. Swans Island held a majestic splendor that captivated all who chose to partake in its glorious beauty. And for the woman, this paradise like island had become more than a home, it was her sanctuary against the cruel, cold world that lay just on the other side of its crystal waters. Forty years ago she had been running blindly, stopping off at the island with the intention of only catching her breath. But as the day melted into the afternoon, she watched in awed fascination as the sun dissolved into a distant horizon; and she knew she could stop running, she was home. Since that first day she had never missed a sunset, not one.
Leaning her head back against the swing she turned her fact to the sun. She felt the warmth spread over her shoulders, her arms, down the front of her house dress and to her legs. Rocking one leg slightly, the swing reluctantly started moving in rhythm with the breeze that seemed ever present on her island of paradise.
Sleep was inevitable, the combination of the warm sun and gently rocking of the swing. Her arms relaxed at her side causing her eyes to close by themselves. It wasn’t long before her subconscious opened up the dusty boxes of memories it kept far away from her conscious mind. Slowly a young girl came into view, long stringy hair that hung limply down a small cowing back, eyes cast downward, with the air of an wallflower. Soft transparent clouds swirled around the woman’s mind and suddenly the girl came into view again, this time smiling adoringly at another woman, laughing out loud. Peace flooded the old woman as comforting memories of a love shared completely engulfed her. For a brief period in her life, they had been lovers. Basking in the warmth of endearments whispered on rainy afternoons and hands touching her with tenderness, the girl came alive. Shared afternoons spent in each other arms, they vowed their undying love for one another. Certainly the girl had never been loved or had the chance to love as she did during this time in her life. And instinctively knew she never would again. What was shared was both eternal and swift. Each moment was cherished and savored. For a few moments, the girl felt like she was in heaven.
The hawking of a distant full woke the woman up from her dreamlike state. Suddenly she felt tired. She turned her head as tired, watery tears squeezed from her lids and slowly trickled down her creviced cheek. Turning her gaze to the sweeping ocean she watched the waves flirt with the edges of the shoreline. She brought one leg up until she was half laying on the swing. A pillow fell to the floor and she reached down to pick it up but couldn’t reach it. Giving up, she leaned back again the swing, tossing her leg occasionally to continue rocking. The sun was almost gone with the darkness of the night waiting in the half light. She rummaged in the pocket of her dress, withdrawing a worn faded newspaper clipping. Yellow with age and constant handling, the photo of he young woman was almost impossible to make out now. Not that she needed the picture to remind her of Annette. Her face, the touch of her hands, everything about the woman she had fallen in love with was branded in her memory...for life it seemed. But she felt comforted holding the picture in her hands, it was her only tangible bond to her love and of a life she had run away from years ago. A life that had been viciously ripped apart by hate and rage.
The woman felt her eyes half close and steeled herself again the onslaught of memories that always came after the calm of the first. They came peacefully at first, the shared secrets of a newfound first love, the exploration f minds, souls and finally body. The woman hesitatingly setting aside a lifetime of instilled morals and values to venture into a sphere that was as equally frightening as if was pre-destined.
The woman sunk into the softness of the pillows and her hands closed in a white knuckle fist. It was a Tuesday afternoon. She had worked frantically to get all her chores finished that morning in anticipation of Annette’s visit later that day. Father wouldn’t be home for at least four hours. Tuesday was cattle auction day in town and he had made plans to attend.
She had strolled through the front door, full of confidence and courage. That was one of the things that has attracted the girl from the start. Lacking so much in herself, she gravitated towards Annette and all that she possessed. The girl stood motionless in the center of her living room, characteristically shy. Looking up, she made eye contact with Annette and once she did, she shyness melted away and she metamorphosed into everything she always wanted to be. They embraced and as time progressed moved from the living room to the bedroom. Time stood still as they confessed hopes and dreams, shared goals and made wishes. It was a time filled with youthful magic and naive faith. It was the only time the girl felt alive.
So engrossed in their newfound heavenly world, the women failed to hear from the front door open and close. It was only after hearing a gasp that was as animal as it was human did the women look up to see the father standing at the threshold, eyes wide with horror, hands unmoving by his side, a look of disgust carved on her face. He stood motionless by the bedroom door as they scurried to dress. It was when the
girl started buttoning up the back of her dress that he came alive and stated raining torrents of bible scriptures and obscenities. He told her she was an un-natural woman and not fit to live. Turning to Annette he called her a whole, a Satan Worshiper for turning his daughter into such an ungodly woman. He told her she would rot in hell for her blasphemous ways.
There was no place for them to go. He loomed in the doorway, blocking their path to freedom. Standing deathly still they tired to disappear into the walls, hoping against hope that a miracle would descent upon them and rescue them from the gale of rage that consumed the small room. His fury whirled around like a cyclone gaining momentum as he hurled threats at the two women. Eyes glazed like a madman, he ravaged the room for something to throw. His hands descended on a plain white lamp and in a rage hurled it across the room with all his might.
She dragged herself back to the present. She couldn’t thing about this anymore. Time hadn’t made things better, they had only gotten worse. Hands shaking, she fingered the clipped again. Wishing she had her glasses, she squinted against the fading light and waited for her eyes to focus. The clipping was of Annette. She stood in front of her jewelry shop next to a Grand Opening Sign. Underneath the picture her name was printed in small typeset letters, Annette Duplechain, Sole Proprietress. The old woman ran arthritic ridden fingers along her picture, tracing her face, forehead and jaw line. She closed her eyes and could almost smell lavender and honey oil. Annette’s favorite perfume then, hers now.
She continued to rock on her front porch. Forty years ago, the island had been as rich in seclusion as it had been absent of neighbors. Both had appealed to her then. She had wanted to be alone, alone to forget the horror of that day that had changed her life forever. But time became her enemy, had become languid, and she found she was unable to forget the past thus keeping the woman captive to a life she had run so far to escape.
Did she really want to dredge up the past here and now, she asked herself, as if she could have prevented the doors from opening anymore than she could have closed them. She shifted slightly in the swing and looked around her prison paradise. The distant horizon met the setting sun blurring the sky in rich purples, reds and yellows. The sand, white and pure, glistened like snow on Christmas morning. She took a deep breath and turned her face upwards towards the sky. Closing her eyes again, she drew a deep breath that reached the depths of her soul.
She was back in the room again, the fury and anger almost touchable. She knew that something was going to happen, but she could never imagined what followed. The lamp flew through the air at a break neck speed, crashing into the wall on the far side. Like a man possessed, the father tore through the room, tearing the sheets off the bed, pulling pictures off the wall. Annette saw it before the woman did, the snub nosed pistol in her hand. Raising the pistol he pointed it directly at his terrified daughter, his body suddenly still. The quiet was more frightening that the insane frenzy before. Unable to move, she steeled herself for the first shot. Eyes closed, she didn’t see Annette lunge in front of her, didn’t see the bullet lodge dead center of her forehead. Opening her eyes she found Annette crumpled in a small heap on the floor, her head bleeding profusely. As the crimson circled widened on the floor, she turned disbelieving eyes to the father, who stood uncomprehending, his hand still outstretched with the gun gripped tightly.
She gave a cry and threw herself by Annette on the floor. Trying to cradle her head in her arms, she was oblivious to the blood and bits of grey matter staining her hands. Hysteria began to set in. In a frantic lifesaving attempt she closed her mouth over Annette’s. At the sight of his daughters mouth on the bleeding girl, the rather roared back to life. Covering the slight distant between them he yanked the shaking girl to her feet. Suddenly taking charge he told her they would bury the corpse in the backyard by the cattle barn, that no one would ever know. Not answering, she cast wide eyes full of blame in his direction. In answer to her unspoken accusation, he furiously grabbed both of her shoulders and pulled her face close to his. Unable to escape from his powerful grasp, she shivered frightenly. In a voice low and terrifying he told her she was to blame for this death, and if she said anything different he would commit her to an asylum and there would be nothing she could do about it. Still holding her in his death grip, he continued, telling her that he would find her a husband, someone would train her to be a good wife and mother. She would see the error of her ways and in time would thank him. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Mistaking her silence for acceptance, he ordered her to get some towels and start mopping up the blood before it congealed.
They buried her that night, rain dampening the ground and fog settling around the raised earth. She was too numb to cry, to numb to feel the ache in her arms and back. The ache rose slowly from her heart as she patted the last foot of dirt down. In that tiny patch of dirt a new spirit was born as the one lay dead beneath her feet. She would leave her father and his insanity.
Less than a week later, she ran away in the middle of the night. The rain and thunder masking her sounds as she fled from a life that had turned into horror and to a life she knew nothing about. She feared them both equally.
She awoke with a start as light rain softly pelted her face. This was perfect, she thought. Just as her new life had begun in the rain, so would it end. Maybe she should pray, a eulogy of sorts to herself but then wondered who would she pray to. God had ceased to exist when he turned a deaf ear to silent pleas as Annette lay bleeding to death on a cold hardwood floor. Since that time, the woman had designed her own future, a recluse who choose to live out the rest of her life in a sterile atmosphere of secrecy and isolation. A solitary spectator who watched the comings and goings of the rest of the world from the safe keeping of her front porch.