Mrs Clitheroe
Author's Note: Hi Sprouters. I wrote this short piece of work for a Uni assignment. It's been sat on my laptop for a while, unused. I thought I would upload it to theSprout but you should be aware that this piece is not a particularly happy piece. If you aren't morbid like I am, I advise you to maybe skip this one.
The Sun was beginning to set and a slight breeze rustled through the leaves of the tall dark oak tree that stood at the back of the garden. An icy chill blew through the air but this did not stop Mrs Clitheroe: she heaved her basket of laundry and began to hang up the shirts and socks. Peg by peg she continued. She looked over and saw Ms Lomour doing the same, first the shirts, then the socks. Mrs Clitheroe walked over to the edge of her haven, and up to the fence that separated her patch of grass from that of her neighbours.
“Hello Nat” she began. “Very cold this evening isn't it?” she continued. No response came from Natalie Lomour, only that of a slight nod. Mrs Clitheroe looked around and tried again. “That’s a lovely dress, Nat. Is it yours?” Had it not been for the rustling leaves, the cold air would’ve carried an awkward silence.
“Yes” came a sudden reply. “It’s from Matalan. It was in the sale.”
“Well, it certainly is nice, it must be said.” And with that, Mrs Clitheroe decided to return to her linen. Bed sheets were particularly difficult, especially on your own. She picked up one end and threw it over the blue matted rope that hung from the drainpipe to the branches of the old oak tree. She pulled and moved the sheets until they were hanging evenly.
Mrs Clitheroe placed the last peg on the last sock and sat down on a chair. She was tired and bored. She looked down at her aging hands that had been worn out due to so many years of labour. She thought back, back to when she was young. Even then her life had been hard, but lately it seemed… things were unfair.
The death of her mother had been a huge blow to Mrs Clitheroe: the woman who had raised her and looked after her, now lying in a small dark box. But what peace she must be in. No worries, no pain. After such a hard life, she had found peace in Paradise.
As Mrs Clitheroe wiped away a single tear from her eye, she felt the soft metal stroke her face. She had had not the heart to put her wedding ring away. She kept it on in memory of the man she had loved. The man she still loved. A heart attack had taken him a few years ago. Such a good man, he had always put his wife before himself.
They had had such lives. They had been married for 37 years: a summer wedding too. She had looked so lovely back then: beauty to make heads turn like windmills. They’d bought a house on Perry Lane in ’93 and lived there ever since.
Oh, to be reunited with him once more: to share their memories and feelings: to touch his caring hands and hear his sensitive words. To share his Paradise with him and live together forever. To be with those she had lost: such bliss.
Mrs Clitheroe removed her weeping face from her tear-stained hands and looked around. And as she sat in her garden with the cold air blowing the leaves of the tree, she couldn’t help notice the rope tied to the branch.
Mrs Clitheroe ran inside and grabbed the strongest pair of scissors she had. She climbed a step ladder and cut the rope off from the drainpipe. She ripped the laundry off the line and as Mrs Clitheroe created a loop in the rope, tears began to stream down her face. Reginald, she could see his sweet face. She stood atop the ladder, and as she placed the noose around her neck, she could feel the blue rope scraping at her skin. The rope was not kind to her. But neither had life been. It seemed so fitting that after so many years of pain, she leave in pain too.
The air grew stronger and it began to rain suddenly. The air grew colder and it became difficult to tell which tears belonged to Mrs Clitheroe. She looked around her garden one last time and stepped off the ladder.
And as the life began to slip away from Mrs Clitheroe, her feet dangling inches of the ground, she could see her sweet Reggie, her mother. She found her escape. She found her paradise.
News » Categories » Creative Writing
Info » Health » Emotional and Mental Health » Suicide
IMAGE: Laundry Day by 'Playingwithbrushes'
