|She Had Painted Her Toenails
Author: CrazyWriter PM
Republished in honor of the November 5 midterm elections in the USA. Suicide in a Jingoist Nation. Set in America, in a few years. Please, read and review.Rated: Fiction M - English - Drama/Angst - Words: 1,181 - Reviews: 5 - Updated: 11-04-02 - Published: 10-01-02 - id: 993956
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: She Had Painted Her Toenails.
Author: M. Reis, AKA Crazywriter, email@example.com
Summary: A suicide in a jingoist nation. Set in the United States, about two years from now.
Warnings: Suicide, murderous undertones, racism and genocide. But I still think it's only PG-13.
Feedback: Drop a mail, if you like. But please, read and review.
Notes: Republished in honor of the USA midterm elections. Just like to encourage all those who are in states that have them for senate, to please, remember that if Republicans become the senate majority we have and entirely Partisan government. All republican majority. And yeah, that makes the vision of this fic a lot more realistic. Please don't flame just to say I'm a Republican, drop dead you idiot Democrat, because I'm not even a Democrat, I don't believe in Partisan systems. But I do want to encourage my fellow Minnesotans to vote for Walter Mondale. Because he stands more of the ideals the unforgettable Paul Wellstone did stood for than Norm Coleman does. Ideals like equality for all and peace.
That said, flames for my above political views will be used to keep warm with- it's cold in Minnesota. Flames in general keep me warm, but I have no problem with ones about the actual fic. Especially not if they're well thought out.
She had painted her toenails.
She had never painted them before, but she had done so today out of pure boredom. Part of the task had made her happy, given her some strange semblance of pleasure or joy. But for the most part, it was just a dull reminder of what her life was.
Dull. Boring. Loathed.
Waiting around with nothing to do. But waiting for what? For Mark to get home at exactly 6:15 everyday? Hardly. Waiting for him to walk through that damn picket gate, through the door, to shout that he was home, placing his hat on the rack like some scene of some god-damned 50's sitcom? No. Never. She loathed him.
She didn't once. She loved him once back when he was just some cute boy, with a mop of messy blonde hair, his wire-rim glasses, his idealism, and his entry-level job as some aide for some Governor. Yes, she had loved him. Maybe she still did.
She did not like the man he was now, hair neatly combed with a severe part, with his jingoism and murderous intents, and his snide superiority, and his job as a cabinet member for a president he would have hated once.
It was all she could do to stop herself from asking, "How many women and children did you murder today, honey?" when he came home each night.
But she wasn't even sure if he would bat an eye. The old Mark would have been infuriated by the very notion of murdering the innocent. But six years with a certain jingoist Florida governor and now as a cabinet member for his brother had changed all of that.
She had asked him one night many people had been executed that day. She didn't know why she had asked, maybe it was just morbid curiosity.
"Terrorists," he corrected, "Pass the asparagus, please, dear." No, not terrorists, she thought, Muslims. All the reason you and your friends need to shoot them down.
"Oh," she had said, passing him the asparagus. "How many?"
"Seven," he said calmly, as though he was discussing grocery shopping or cleaning the grout.
"That many finished their trials today?" she had asked naively. Mark had laughed, it was the first time she had heard him laugh like that. Cold, harsh, cruel.
"They don't get a trial," he explained, "If we've got enough evidence against them, we take care of it."
"It's done all the time, honey," he said as though that excused it, "Besides, they were Muslims." She had never expected him to actually admit that as a reason for killing. Not even to her.
"What does that have to do with it?" she asked in shocked.
Mark smiled, "Well you know, Laura. They were Islamic Terrorists, those are the worst kind, they think it's all based on Allah or what have you. They're not rational, you know, like you and I."
Of course. They were rational. They were God-fearing Episcopalians. She had nothing to worry about.
She had wanted to ask him more that night. Like where did he get off passing judgement? Like why was it a cabinet member, even one in defenses, leading a patrol and killing? Where were the police, the justice department? But she knew. The president and his cabinet controlled everything through loopholes and tricks. They were in charge, at all times.
But she didn't feel safe.
Mark believed what he did was right, she knew that. Mark saw only what he was told now. Even two years ago he would have denounced this war, this conflict as what it was: a vendetta against an unremarkable Middle Eastern dictator. There were others as evil, if not more to be reckoned with. But this was a vendetta. The strongest military country in the world turned into a terrorist nation, denounced by the UN for their unapproved attacks. They called it a fascist nation, ruled with militant and economic supremacy. And even the mighty UN was powerless against it.
Laura hated it all.
Mark was making noise about wanting a child. A son, most likely, a miniature Mark to turn out just like him. She'd rather die than bring a child into this world. This world, this country was no place for children.
She'd stocked up on morning-after pills just to make sure.
Because she hated the monster she had married.
She leaned back against the window and slumped to the ground. This is how they will find me, she realized, dead and Mark will know- it's all his fault.
Maybe he'll change, she hoped, maybe, just maybe he loves me enough to see the error of his ways. But she knew- he wouldn't. Couldn't. She heard Mark's wingtips clacking on the sidewalk, twenty feet away. She heard the gate creak open.
But that didn't matter… she had painted her toenails. Red.
Blood red, blood like the thousands of innocent children, like the unjustly accused murdered in a dirty alley by the man she called her husband. Like the blood staining an middle-eastern desert, there because of a madman's obsession. The blood staining the streets of New York. Blood red, like the blood trickling down her temple as she slumped to the floor, dead. Blood like the speckles Mark stepped in as he turned into the living room.
But she had painted her toenails.