Friday, 13 March 2009

The bigger picture 1

Theresa knew that a handsome man like Andrew Rawson would pass her by. And he did, leaving her plumped on the sofa with her plate of egg and cress while he loomed over her cousin Amy with his most disarming smile.

Amy, a natural flirt, entranced him in turn, with her sun-kissed ringlets and gossamer skin. Her eyes flashed and fluttered, her breasts rose with excitement at his witty reposts.
Theresa returned to her sandwiches. Amy had him hooked. She would wait.

Andrew made as many calls on Amy at Theresa’s rose garlanded cottage as propriety would admit. Theresa had made over the back bedroom to Amy in her hour of need and inevitably Amy started to entertain Andrew on an impromptu and nocturnal basis. Theresa heard Amy accept Andrew’s eventual proposal through the bedroom wall. Not long now, she thought.

Amy went to live with Andrew and prepare for her wedding. Theresa’s cottage returned to its tranquillity. Until late one night, Theresa set down her warm milk and her book to answer the insistent phone.

Andrew was beside himself and slashed about the arms and chest with a boning knife. Amy was locked in the bathroom, naked and screaming, slashing at herself in turn and vowing to cut out Andrew’s intestines and spread them over the walls.

Theresa offered honeyed words of calm and promised to hurry over, once she had contacted Amy’s old clinic. Andrew had nothing to worry about. Theresa would take care of everything.

Amy is back on her medication. Her ward is secure. As is her future.

Andrew is recovering under Theresa’s constant care. His nerves are slowly restoring. In fact on days when the sunlight outlines her figure through Theresa’s loose country gowns, that he feels the sap may one day rise again.


No One In Particular said...

Patience obviously has its rewards.

Oscar Grillo said...

Only as a card game.

Barbu said...

Didn't I spot this little tale in a Jane Austen novel? Pride And Breadknife, possibly?

Oscar Grillo said...

No, I think you must have read it in "La Philosophie dans le Boudoir" by the Marquis de Sade, Mr. Olcott.

Barbu said...

What's in a name, Mr. Grillo? I am currently enjoying a seaside jaunt to Western Super Mare. Does that make me Olcutt On The Western Front?

Oscar Grillo said...

No. I mean Mr Blavatsky. The man whose photo you'd appropriated!

Barbu said...

Madame Blavastska and I greet you from the spirit world.

If you feel a little shiver in the night, it's just the hem of her astral nightie catching you as she hovers.

Anonymous said...

what? like there was only man on earth? LOL

guess they deserve each other for being so dumb.