Madeleine opened the hand-delivered envelope and stared. The dim light from the faded yellow lampshade that adorned the once shiny brass lamp made her fading eyesight strain. She intently examined the masculine handwriting for courage to read what she already knew lay within its confines.
She long ago quit expecting a reply from her estranged husband to her humble request to come home. Her infidelity led him to banish her to the islands and there she was destined to spend her days quietly and alone. She absorbed the words contained within the short note. Her frail hands lay resting on her lap among the folds of her faded dress.
She speaks in a hushed whisper to the walls that surround her, for she lives alone in her bungalow by the sea.
“Oh cruel Destiny, when you say dance, I dance! When you say cry, I cry! I am chained to your every controlling whim. You hold the mystical key to my happiness. When I make mistakes, I sense you laughing as if you were perched on my shoulder. When something beautiful happens, you do your best to take it away.
I’ve tried to rebel against your tyranny but all you’ve left me, are doubts. I wake in the morning only to wonder what trial you will put in front for me. What decision will you allow me to make, decisions that you think are best for my future? However, you don’t really care about my future? You only care about your own selfish desires.
You play with me like a tattered stuffed animal, pulling out the stuffing and scatter it about. I gather up the pieces and plot my next move, attempting to shun the dark shadow left behind. Leave my spirit and haunt someone else, Someday I will win and own my own destiny but until then I must fight you every step of the way. To overcome the obstacles you put in front of me.
You constantly give me challenges, One of us will win the fight but for now, the battle is not lost, I’ll not give up not without a fight to the end and may the better of the two of us win! I look forward to very little.”
Madeleine reached with both hands for the antique decanter on the rickety mahogany table beside her threadbare and musty armchair. Her movements had become slow and methodical over the years. With quiet deliberation, she removed the stopper from the crystal container, pouring the amber contents into an elegant glass and drew the glass to her lips. She tilted her head back, took an extended swallow, breathed a deep sigh, and then repeated the ritual.
Yvonne is retired and lives on the Florida Gulf Coast. She has spent her career in the art field and is recently perfecting her love of writing. She loves mysteries and considers herself an amateur sleuth. Her love of writing comes from a desire to express herself.
She has written several short stories and is concentrating on flash fiction and has currently revived her interest in photography.