Short Story Competition!

Poetic Justice

by Laura (Year 12)

Darcy heaved the last box into his boot, and lit up another cigarette.

He should stop, he'd promised her….yeah, right, because she knew a helluva lot about promises.

Darcy Mathews was a middle-aged man with green-gold eyes and well-kept, shoulder length, brown hair. Today, he wore a pair of jeans and a simple plaid shirt, but most noticeable was what he didn't wear on the fourth finger of his left hand. He was reserved, polite and thought himslef rather poetic, however others may beg to differ.

He sighed and watched the little clouds of smoke and water disappear. God he loved days like this, where the sun-streaked sky glittered, and the air was fresh and crisp. It was symbolic, the perfect ‘moving on’ day, he decided.

Darcy stubbed out his cigarette and headed towards the house, feeling it would be fitting for a final look.

The house itself was quaint and had served Darcy well over the years. The federation style was common amongst country cottages so it wasn’t terribly bold but, thinking about it, he really did sell it too cheaply.

He walked in, brushing past the tulips.

He planted those about two months ago. The salesman said the house would fetch a higher price with a garden, and so he'd laboured away.

Darcy opened the ornate wooden door, and stared into the empty lounge room.

He waited

But there was no impact.
He felt nothing.

Darcy wasn’t disappointed, he simply thought he'd feel some sort of emotion.

No matter.

He continued through to the kitchen, thinking of all the dinners he'd shared with his wife.

Still nothing.

What a shame, not even the kitchen could evoke some sort of emotion from him. But that wasn’t surprising; the memories of the kitchen were mostly sour.

Lots of shouting and even more crying.

He looked down, sighed and moved on to the bedroom. Darcy glanced at the bare walls, the naked bookshelf. Here, finally, something flickered within him.

He remembered how, when the thunder had roared too loudly and lightening had struck the big ol' oak tree outside, he and his wife had sat together, huddled in the bunker underground on the rocking chair. The same rocking chair that used to live in the corner of their bedroom.

The sheriff warned the storm would be bad, so he made provisions and they set up camp in the bunker.

"It was designed to protect against a missile attack", he assured her. She played along, knowing that he was only reassuring himself. He just wanted to keep her safe.

Darcy smiled at the no-longer-there pictures. He remembered when, a long time ago, they'd picnicked near the lake. That was a good day, despite the fact they'd been ambushed by ducks after their bread. She'd been frightened of them, she never liked birds.

This he learned the hard way. He'd laughed at her reaction to the lovebirds he brought for her. She wasn’t such a statue then, she wasn’t so distant, so cold.

Back then, she was the woman he loved.

He savoured the good memories, for there were few, and moved into the hallway.

She chose the buttercup yellow paint he'd hated so much. He was willing to put up with it if it made her happy; it took so much to make her smile. That was almost three years ago, but he remembered with vivid clarity the screaming and tantrums that the stupid paint had caused.

They weren’t on his behalf of course. He just sat there, wondering where it had gone wrong.

And why they hell were they repainting in the first place?

Grimacing, he traced the now faded paint with his fingers and walked up the stairs.

He bypassed the never-been-used study that was once a never-been-used spare bedroom.

She'd desperately wanted a study. ‘To Write’, was her reason, and he thought the idea somewhat romantic and thus encouraged her. He could've never foreseen the damage it did to their relationship. The study became her asylum, and while she was renovating it, she became a different person.

Her refuge, his hell.

So much for bypassing.

Darcy stepped out onto the balcony, overlooking the garden. He'd spent a good six months on that garden, planting and replanting.

Hyacinth, Snow Crocus, Cyclamen, Snowdrops, Camellias. She'd loved winter plants, and it pained him to plant her favourites. But the salesman had said, and he had followed.

He always followed, never questioning. A ‘Yes Man’, she called him.

He wished now he'd acted sooner. He was well aware he was in a loveless marriage.

It was empty.
No passion, no emotion.

Darcy walked back inside where a hole in the plaster confronted him. She'd thrown their wedding photo at him, he ducked, and it hit the wall.

It was his fault.
All his fault.

And he agreed, because he was a Yes Man.

He needed to get out of the house.

Darcy all but jumped down the stairs and walked briskly to the door. The crisp air hit him with clarity and he knew he'd made the right decision.

He got into his car, an old 1968 Camaro SS. His last memory of her. He'd brought the car off her, and it lasted longer than she did. He loved irony. It stemmed from his poetic nature.

Darcy sat in the front seat, wondering if the new owners would create better memories from the house-that-used-to-be-his.

One thing he did know was that he had omitted the bunker from the house plans.

Which meant that only the spiders and roaches would hear the heartbeat of his bound and gagged wife.

Only they would see the fear in her eyes as she rocked, back and forth, in the very same rocking chair that, nearly ten years ago, had provided her with so much comfort.

Darcy drove off, feeling pleased that the grass he’d so painstakingly laid over the bunker entrance, near the 'ol burnt-out oak, had taken so well.