by Anita Treso

Created on: July 21, 2010

A Thundering Prayer

The anniversary card was damp. The writing on the envelope smudged. What was the post-man thinking in this weather? Angie looked at the envelope, the ink was still spreading and changing shape, at first it looked like steps between each line, but as the letters became fuzzier, they began to take on expressions and faces appeared out of the blue. Literally.  Angie tore off the top of the envelope and removed the card with two fingers. ‘Happy 30th Anniversary’ splashed across the front of the card in bright orange letters, against a backdrop of glitter and brightly coloured balloons. How nauseating, thought Angie, and not in the slightest bit funny. The creaking floorboards upstairs warned her that Isaac was awake and would join her shortly. Angie read the card. From Derek and Sheila. Angie was surprised Sheila had anything to do with this, She tore up the card and its envelope, put on her shoes and quickly darted outside and threw the offending article into next-door’s bin (they wouldn’t mind).

Her hair was a little wet, but she doubted Isaac would notice now his sight was deteriorating. How apt for it to rain today. It rained on our wedding day too. She should have listened to God. The rain had been a sign. Angie’s mother had tried to comfort her daughter about the slate coloured clouds approaching the church. During the ceremony, thunder shuddered through the foundations of the church. Angie should have run screaming out of there, cleansing herself in the rain. The rain tried to save her. Now it reminded her of her folly. In response a distant rumble acknowledged her thoughts. Angie put her slippers back on, as she turned towards the lounge, she saw her face in the hall mirror. It was only a small thing, but elaborately engraved in wood. A present from her parents, and only tolerated by Isaac because of that. Angie looked closely at her face. A face she didn’t recognise. Since her marriage, her face had not matched that of the person now existing inside her. Lines etched into her skin. Oh, who was she kidding, lines, they were more like furrows. Her face a creased cotton piece, embroidered with pain and stitched with violence, she couldn’t just iron out those lines.

Angie felt a distance between her real self and her reflection. It was like in that film Charlotte had made her watch, where people were living virtual lives because of aliens who had taken over the planet,

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