12-07-2018, 04:46 PM
Ruth Mae
She laid in bed, her cheek pressed firmly into the pillow. Nothing but a thin blanket covered her body, not even a sheet to cover the mattress. She was holed up in a small room, hardly big enough for a dog, but it was something better than what she had before.
Better than no bed at all.
Her arms were linked around the most important item she had to her name: the bible. Small enough to fit in her book bag, yet large enough to take up half her bed. All she would ever need was in that book.
Shouting continued from upstairs, no doubt her roommates had dipped into spiced rum. This was not new, this was a weekly occurrence. It had been something she grew to accept. At the end of the day—for the most part at least—she was able to avoid it completely. It didn’t usually make its way down the stairs.
The morning came quick; by the time the yelling had seized it had already been three in the morning. Only two more hours had passed with a deep slumber before a loud alarm woke her. Groggily, her legs swung over the bed to reveal age spots and pale skin, her knees bruised from the landscaping job she had done two days prior. She carefully placed her bible to her left (always her left), rising to stand and rummaging through her small drawer to find the only sweatshirt and pants she owned.
Climbing the stairs was becoming harder and harder. What used to be a walk in the park was now a dragged-out event that took her minutes of recovery at the top of the stairs. She winced as she reached the hardwood floor, straightening her back, ignoring the passed-out male on the rug in the living room. Broken glass was thrown across the kitchen with sticky liquid spots still drying on the counters.
“Ruth?” The soft whisper came from the living room where her roommate, Melinda, was waking. Ruth looked at her, not astonished by the large bruise that covered her cheek and eye. It was no surprise that their fight had gotten physical, as it does nearly every weekend. “Is it Monday?”
“Yes,” she whispered, reaching into the fridge to grab a sandwich she had made yesterday before bed.
Silence falls between them again, that awkward quiet where Ruth knows she needs to talk about what happened last night but wants nothing to do with it. How many times can a woman be beat before she finds the courage to stand?
Apparently, Melinda had grown used to the tears.
“Have a good sleep Mel,” she softly mutters before disappearing behind the wooden back door.
The bus ride is long, she hides herself at the back corner, gripping her book bag and staring at the downtown hustle. Today she had just ran a brush through her short black hair before securing it back with a brown and gold clip.
The agency comes up quickly on the bus, the little blue and black logo poking between buildings. An agency she hasn’t often gotten to, but nonetheless has gotten her work when she has. She has become desperate, frighteningly so.
With every drunk occasion comes the follow up of rent and going home Ruth is aware that Melinda will be asking for money.
It happens every Monday without fail.
Opening the door to the agency, the soft ting of a bell alarms the dispatchers of her arrival. In front of her sat what looked to be fifty men waiting to be sent out. Instantly her heart sinks, realizing the likely hood of her getting work slim to none.
Well, an hour from the dryness of the basement isn’t so bad.
“Good morning,” a female tone rings into the air louder than any male voice in the room. Behind the counter a small brunette girl hidden behind a black desk and over-sized blue laptop. She stares inquisitively, waiting for a response.
“Hi” Ruth barely musters out a word, shaking anxiously as her pen swipes across the sign in sheet.
“Looking for work today?” Her voice so much louder and obnoxious that Ruth feels herself retreating into the shadows of the corner, but she needs work.
“Mhmm,” she nods before sitting herself in a chair, resting her bag on her lap and staring ahead at the playing movie while the office begins to buzz with men coming and leaving for work.
Her foot taps shakily, anxiety flooding every inch of her body as men stand abruptly all around her. Her mind keeps shuffling between now and then, when the last time a man stood up so fast beside her, she had felt the pressure of a fist crack across her jaw. Nervously, her arms wrap around her in a self-hug.
“Ruth Mae?” Amanda calls out to come to the counter.
She sits there, gripping her biceps and nervously shaking. Forty years later and still her full name causes shocks to roll down her throat into the pit of her stomach. No one had called her by full since she ran from home at twelve.
Since her mother had laid motionless on the kitchen floor, blood running from her ear as her step father stood over with a bat in hand.
It isn’t until she is outside panting that she realizes she has ran from the office in a fit of anxiety, grasping for air and leaning as far as she can into the brick wall behind her.
“That old hag is losing it,” a teenager mutters to his friend as they pass her, exchanging laughs as she struggles to find the air to breathe.
She chokes back the tears beckoning to fall from her eyes, kneeling to the ground and tightening the grip around her arms.
“Ma’am?” A woman kneels with her, a long black parka sweeping the floor with fur gloves reaching to lightly touch her shoulder. “Are you alright?”
Ruth barely works up a nod, embarrassed, ashamed. She cannot help but be suddenly aware of the wrinkles growing on her face and the saggy skin that clings to her old bones.
“Do you need a ride home, maybe?” Her voice is soft, sounds softer than silk. Her porcelain skin is wrapped in a blonde blanket of hair with the warmest of cheeks. Ruth becomes growingly conscious of her neurotic state.
…. To be continued.
She laid in bed, her cheek pressed firmly into the pillow. Nothing but a thin blanket covered her body, not even a sheet to cover the mattress. She was holed up in a small room, hardly big enough for a dog, but it was something better than what she had before.
Better than no bed at all.
Her arms were linked around the most important item she had to her name: the bible. Small enough to fit in her book bag, yet large enough to take up half her bed. All she would ever need was in that book.
Shouting continued from upstairs, no doubt her roommates had dipped into spiced rum. This was not new, this was a weekly occurrence. It had been something she grew to accept. At the end of the day—for the most part at least—she was able to avoid it completely. It didn’t usually make its way down the stairs.
The morning came quick; by the time the yelling had seized it had already been three in the morning. Only two more hours had passed with a deep slumber before a loud alarm woke her. Groggily, her legs swung over the bed to reveal age spots and pale skin, her knees bruised from the landscaping job she had done two days prior. She carefully placed her bible to her left (always her left), rising to stand and rummaging through her small drawer to find the only sweatshirt and pants she owned.
Climbing the stairs was becoming harder and harder. What used to be a walk in the park was now a dragged-out event that took her minutes of recovery at the top of the stairs. She winced as she reached the hardwood floor, straightening her back, ignoring the passed-out male on the rug in the living room. Broken glass was thrown across the kitchen with sticky liquid spots still drying on the counters.
“Ruth?” The soft whisper came from the living room where her roommate, Melinda, was waking. Ruth looked at her, not astonished by the large bruise that covered her cheek and eye. It was no surprise that their fight had gotten physical, as it does nearly every weekend. “Is it Monday?”
“Yes,” she whispered, reaching into the fridge to grab a sandwich she had made yesterday before bed.
Silence falls between them again, that awkward quiet where Ruth knows she needs to talk about what happened last night but wants nothing to do with it. How many times can a woman be beat before she finds the courage to stand?
Apparently, Melinda had grown used to the tears.
“Have a good sleep Mel,” she softly mutters before disappearing behind the wooden back door.
The bus ride is long, she hides herself at the back corner, gripping her book bag and staring at the downtown hustle. Today she had just ran a brush through her short black hair before securing it back with a brown and gold clip.
The agency comes up quickly on the bus, the little blue and black logo poking between buildings. An agency she hasn’t often gotten to, but nonetheless has gotten her work when she has. She has become desperate, frighteningly so.
With every drunk occasion comes the follow up of rent and going home Ruth is aware that Melinda will be asking for money.
It happens every Monday without fail.
Opening the door to the agency, the soft ting of a bell alarms the dispatchers of her arrival. In front of her sat what looked to be fifty men waiting to be sent out. Instantly her heart sinks, realizing the likely hood of her getting work slim to none.
Well, an hour from the dryness of the basement isn’t so bad.
“Good morning,” a female tone rings into the air louder than any male voice in the room. Behind the counter a small brunette girl hidden behind a black desk and over-sized blue laptop. She stares inquisitively, waiting for a response.
“Hi” Ruth barely musters out a word, shaking anxiously as her pen swipes across the sign in sheet.
“Looking for work today?” Her voice so much louder and obnoxious that Ruth feels herself retreating into the shadows of the corner, but she needs work.
“Mhmm,” she nods before sitting herself in a chair, resting her bag on her lap and staring ahead at the playing movie while the office begins to buzz with men coming and leaving for work.
Her foot taps shakily, anxiety flooding every inch of her body as men stand abruptly all around her. Her mind keeps shuffling between now and then, when the last time a man stood up so fast beside her, she had felt the pressure of a fist crack across her jaw. Nervously, her arms wrap around her in a self-hug.
“Ruth Mae?” Amanda calls out to come to the counter.
She sits there, gripping her biceps and nervously shaking. Forty years later and still her full name causes shocks to roll down her throat into the pit of her stomach. No one had called her by full since she ran from home at twelve.
Since her mother had laid motionless on the kitchen floor, blood running from her ear as her step father stood over with a bat in hand.
It isn’t until she is outside panting that she realizes she has ran from the office in a fit of anxiety, grasping for air and leaning as far as she can into the brick wall behind her.
“That old hag is losing it,” a teenager mutters to his friend as they pass her, exchanging laughs as she struggles to find the air to breathe.
She chokes back the tears beckoning to fall from her eyes, kneeling to the ground and tightening the grip around her arms.
“Ma’am?” A woman kneels with her, a long black parka sweeping the floor with fur gloves reaching to lightly touch her shoulder. “Are you alright?”
Ruth barely works up a nod, embarrassed, ashamed. She cannot help but be suddenly aware of the wrinkles growing on her face and the saggy skin that clings to her old bones.
“Do you need a ride home, maybe?” Her voice is soft, sounds softer than silk. Her porcelain skin is wrapped in a blonde blanket of hair with the warmest of cheeks. Ruth becomes growingly conscious of her neurotic state.
…. To be continued.