CollegeMale
New member
- Nov 24, 2011
- 0
- 0
- 0
Thanks.
The wife of Julius Evern LaFrai was something of a beaten dog. Her clothes were tattered and frayed with the seams splitting at ends and puckering outwards, while her face was bruised and sunken. Her lips were chapped and crisscrossed with sores that would bleed, heal over with scabs, and bleed again; and her fingers and toes were yellowed and callused with daily labor. Often her hands trembled and shook without provocation or reason and her hair, a remnant of her thick set Irish character, had faded to a dull and listless orange. She almost always bowed her head when out in public or society, regardless of place or time; bringing her eyes to her feet and knotting and knitting at her hands. Her replies and remarks were almost all whispers, little wisps of short and direct answers that got caught on the wind and trailed off to a dull murmur.
Above her was the Georgian sun that beat down on the small fields and prairies and warmed the nearby pools where mosquitoes noisily buzzed back and forth; and the air, thick and leaden with moisture, stuck to her perspiring face. As she walked, her boots kicked up bits and clouds of dust that stirred with the air and blanketed the nearby grasses and weeds that reached out and into the road. Birds chattered through the trees and canopies and took flight with a simple caw, silhouetting themselves against the sky, and a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, swaying the trees around her.
The day was Tuesday and more so, the day was May third. It had been twenty-four days since Julius had taken their cart and headed for town and still, there was no sign of him or anything to hint at him returning soon.
Julius had always been a barn-yard cat of sorts. He would come and go as he pleased, scratch at the door when he was alone or wanted to be fed, and bite and hiss for slightest of reasons. Walking through town, Helen would hear rumors and whispers of how Julius hadn’t been faithful for a single day in their marriage. On occasion, a woman would approach Helen and, with her deepest sympathies, explain how she had seen Julius leaving the town’s brothel, or how Julius had been out in the fields, rolling around with this girl. She would hear about Julius’s gambling and drinking, his near continuous undermining of their marriage. And as Helen would hear these things, the women would look at her. Would sadly nod their heads, and say “There, there, it’s not your fault”. They would pity her and show her that they pity her. Show her that they were higher than she was; that she should be grateful for their concern and for their time. After all, she was Helen LaFrai, wife of Julius LaFrai, and they were they.
But of course Helen knew about these affairs. She had always known.
The wife of Julius Evern LaFrai was something of a beaten dog. Her clothes were tattered and frayed with the seams splitting at ends and puckering outwards, while her face was bruised and sunken. Her lips were chapped and crisscrossed with sores that would bleed, heal over with scabs, and bleed again; and her fingers and toes were yellowed and callused with daily labor. Often her hands trembled and shook without provocation or reason and her hair, a remnant of her thick set Irish character, had faded to a dull and listless orange. She almost always bowed her head when out in public or society, regardless of place or time; bringing her eyes to her feet and knotting and knitting at her hands. Her replies and remarks were almost all whispers, little wisps of short and direct answers that got caught on the wind and trailed off to a dull murmur.
Above her was the Georgian sun that beat down on the small fields and prairies and warmed the nearby pools where mosquitoes noisily buzzed back and forth; and the air, thick and leaden with moisture, stuck to her perspiring face. As she walked, her boots kicked up bits and clouds of dust that stirred with the air and blanketed the nearby grasses and weeds that reached out and into the road. Birds chattered through the trees and canopies and took flight with a simple caw, silhouetting themselves against the sky, and a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, swaying the trees around her.
The day was Tuesday and more so, the day was May third. It had been twenty-four days since Julius had taken their cart and headed for town and still, there was no sign of him or anything to hint at him returning soon.
Julius had always been a barn-yard cat of sorts. He would come and go as he pleased, scratch at the door when he was alone or wanted to be fed, and bite and hiss for slightest of reasons. Walking through town, Helen would hear rumors and whispers of how Julius hadn’t been faithful for a single day in their marriage. On occasion, a woman would approach Helen and, with her deepest sympathies, explain how she had seen Julius leaving the town’s brothel, or how Julius had been out in the fields, rolling around with this girl. She would hear about Julius’s gambling and drinking, his near continuous undermining of their marriage. And as Helen would hear these things, the women would look at her. Would sadly nod their heads, and say “There, there, it’s not your fault”. They would pity her and show her that they pity her. Show her that they were higher than she was; that she should be grateful for their concern and for their time. After all, she was Helen LaFrai, wife of Julius LaFrai, and they were they.
But of course Helen knew about these affairs. She had always known.