-The Captain's Limbo

[Words to Image. I see this random image and then write the story my mind asks me to write. This is what it spoke to me.]

Lucy couldn't stand the sight of the old farmhouse. There had been just too many restless nights there, wondering if that rickety old front door would scream bloody Mary as it opened. Wondering if that bastard old man would run out on that wooden deck, scream through a cigar rattling voice, and cut her to the bone. Many times, before she had felt the weight of the world on her shoulders and whatever she did was never good enough for him. There was always something more that he needed. Something more that he wanted. Something more that was just a reason to remind her that her place was down on the ground, in the dirt, with the rest of the dogs. He was always quite the bastard.

And then one day when the sun was near setting, she devised herself a plan. She would remove several of the nails from a certain section of the deck, the five boards just left of the old bell post. This was the typical spot he would yell from after running out and grabbing hold of it. Perhaps he felt as if he leaned out from the porch his words would hold more weight. It was his weight she was counting on. A few missing nails and hopefully his one hundred and sixty-five pounds would raise up the backside, allowing him to topple off the porch. What awaited him down below would enrich his scream, as least for a short time, that is.

The nails were pulled and discarded. The bottle, the same as the night before, was nearing its typical ninety-five percent empty about this time. Her absence in the house was right on cue, so she waited. She stood by the edge of the road and waited for his need to assert his ass into the quiet countryside. Sure enough, she heard him holler. And then the hinges screamed their daily scream just before that screen door's frame slammed as it always did. The dogs didn't flinch. They were used to this recurring pattern. He wrapped his hand around the post, leaned out as far as he could, coughed through his first words, and then forced the peaceful evening to receive his daily disturbance.

"WHERE IN THE HELL ARE YOU, GIRL?!"

Lucy didn't answer. She simply waited.

"I SAID ... WHERE IN THE HELL ARE-"

The boards behind him rose and the ones where he stood dipped. She stood on her tippy toes to get a better look. Did he fall off of the porch as she had hoped? Did he topple to the ground where his reward was waiting? Could she possibly be free from his constant abuse? She couldn't tell. He was nowhere in sight.

"Perhaps I'll get closer to see what has become," she thought.

So, she ventured closer. Still no sight of him. She inched in even closer. Nothing. She now still mere feet from where he was supposed to land. But he wasn't there. No body, no bottle, no dogs, nothing. She stared at the circle of brown dirt where the grass would no longer grow and dropped to her knees. There were no signs of life, death, or sounds of his voice. She laid down onto the life-sized section of brown dirt and started to hum. Its shape matched her own, perfectly. She closed both eyes and whispered, "Where ... in ... the ... hell ... are ... you? Girl? I told you ... you had better put down that bottle. Before it puts you down. I guess you didn't listen."

Lucy returned to the very place that was her last. Every evening, just before sunset, she walked up to that same bell post, coughed up that same cigar shaped piece of earth, felt that same yard implement penetrate her side, and laid down in that same dirt silhouette where she lost her life. The following day was always a repeat.

That bastard old man's last name was Morgan, and she drank with him every evening to hide from her life's choices. Lucy was now lost in limbo. If only she had chosen differently.

[Choices. Choose wisely. 👍, 🗣, ➡, and consider following me for future works.]