Grey and dull brown hair fluttered down into the rust stained porcelain sink as the pair of shears flashed in the dim light of a sixty watt bulb. Sandra could no longer see her image in the mirror, tears blurring her vision, she was literally chopping her hair off. She hated how her hair looked before she took to hacking at it with the shears. It was a feeble attempt to improve her coif, that suddenly went all wrong. Frustration and the enormity of her ruined life had finally taken a toll on her delicate grasp on reality.
She let the shears drop from her fingers; they clattered into the sink, the tips slipping into the drain. Roughly she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands before lowering them to grasp the sides of the sink. Her cleared vision allowed her to see her handiwork in the mirror. The image was distorted now that most of the silver had faded from along the edges. Short tufts of hair stuck out at odd angles, giving her the appearance of a worn out scrub brush. Her lower lip quivered, chin bunching up as she fought down the sudden urge to laugh, knowing that if she did she would never stop.
Sandra Wilkerson thought back over the last fifteen years, how it had all led up to this very moment. Rick, her husband of fifteen years, leaving her for another, much younger and vibrant woman. The divorce was quick, even the decision of child custody was hastily given to her. Rick did not want children to ruin his new romance chances. All the assets they had, the home and summer place in upstate New York, were sold, everything else was liquidated and split fifty-fifty, with the exception of the family car that she was allowed to keep.
She never realized how difficult it would be to make a move into a modest three bedroom townhouse in a more urban part of New York. Not to mention buying furniture that was more durable and functional than lavish and chic. Certainly not a place she would want to invite friends into. After shelling out her share of the liquidation proceeds for all that, Sandra knew she wasn't going to be able to make ends meet. What Rick paid in child support hardly kept the kids fed and clothed.
Not having any work experience, she took whatever jobs she could to augment living expenses. Finally settling on working as a waitress in a busy bistro in the little community where they now resided. She made only minimum wage and her tips did little to help. She was reduced to going on welfare, food stamps and WIC. It galled her to no end that she would have to depend on public assistance to survive. After all the years of living easy on Rick's ample income as a CEO for a major investment firm, this was a crush to the lifestyle she was accustomed to.
She now had to raise their two teenage children by herself; putting them through college with little to no help from Rick. Getting assistance through scholarships and government grants, yet another source of embarrassment for her. Sandra endured Jennie's and Rick Jr's resentment when their father left them. They thought it was all her fault for their beloved father's leaving. Rick had spoiled his son and daughter to no end, giving them everything they ever asked for. Now their cash cow parent was no longer even interested in their well-being, so it was only logical that they would strike out at the remaining parent.
Now that they were grown, with families and successful careers of their own, they too had become estranged, completely cutting off all contact with her. It was only through their respectful spouses that secreted announcements informed her of the birth of three grandchildren. Occasionally, Sandra would get a bad photo - the ones that wouldn't be missed - of the babies.
With Jennie and Rick Jr no longer dependant on her, she moved out of the townhouse and back to New York City. For a long while, she stayed in cheap flop houses and the YMCA. So demoralizing for a fifty-two year old woman who had it all at one time. She finally lucked out when fellow waitress, Pam, offered Sandra the chance to sub-let her apartment. Pam was getting married and moving into her fianc's Upper Manhattan apartment. Hearing that set Sandra's teeth tightly into a superficial smile. Upper Manhattan had been where she grew up, in the luxury of her grandfather's penthouse home. A far cry from where she was living now. She accepted Pam's offer, a place of her own was better than another month in a stinking, roach infested room in the flop house.
Turning away from her hideous image, Sandra walked out of the tiny bathroom, a tuft of hair getting caught between the toes of her left foot. Her path was direct, passing through the only other room of her ninth floor efficiency apartment, pausing briefly at the bedside stand. On the rickety table was a plain lamp with a badly faded and frayed shade and a framed picture of her, Rick, the two children and Mickey Mouse, a memento of a better time at Disney World. With an angry growl, her hand swept the picture off the table, sending it flying across the room to crash into the wall in a spray of glass.
Sandra continued her short trip to the sliding glass door that led out to the small balcony. Struggling with the rusty latch with fingers that were becoming gnarled with the onset of arthritis, she was finally able to push the door open. It screeched in protest as it slid on the warped tract. A stiff wind greeted her, blowing the long flannel nightgown around her legs, attempting to hamper her progress to the railing. The bitter cold of the cement balcony stung her bare feet, the chill coursing up her spider-veined legs. Her fingers curled around the icy metal railing, pulling herself close to look out over the glittering vista of the city below and beyond. Faint sounds of traffic wafted up to her ears from the busy street.
A pang of regret constricted her throat, in turn, causing her to let out a strangled sob. Her head turning slowly as she looked from left to right at the sprawl of the city, the Big Apple, a place of dreams. A place she had once loved for its fine restaurants, the excitement of the theaters and Broadway musicals, all the things she had once cherished. Now, she held only contempt for the seedy side of the city that she had been forced into.
Leaning forward, her attention now went to the streets below. Yellow cabs jockeyed for position up to the curb, to load or unload passengers coming and going to the lesser quality diners that lined the street. The shouts of two hacks arguing over a prime parking space sounded faint. Staring down at the scene, a wave of vertigo struck her, she leaned back, tipping her head to search for the moon, finding it silhouetted between two of the tallest skyscrapers.
With a swallow of heavy resolve, she lifted her right leg; her hip joint sent a painful jolt through her. Swinging her leg over the side, she strained to pull herself up to straddle the narrow rail. Clinging to the rail tightly, she slowly brought the left leg over, toes seeking out the narrow lip of the balcony on this forbidden side. Keeping her eyes riveted on the moon, she leaned out. The wind ripping up under her nightgown, making it billow out around a body that was once proud and fit, the envy of all her girlfriends through out her college days, now sagging and frumpy. Sandra let go of her death grasp on the railing, falling, flying, free for the first time in many years.