A new draft.
Sara loses everything, and has to put her broken life back together piece by piece. If your life was broken, how would you put it back together?
The night was trivial, because of the weather. Dark, cold, and rainy, all across the city the atmosphere spoke to anyone who was down, lonely, or lost. The night matched all their moods, and each of them saw it as something for them, a magic to help them along. They were not wrong, in a solid sense, but at the same time they were not right. The night and the rain, however sad and beautiful they might be did not care if anyone was depressed or down. It didn’t matter.
However, it is not a bad thing to think that the weather is for you. If it can help you, then of course it is a good thing. Still, you have to know that there are many, many other people who think the same exact thing about the night. Sara knew all this. But she still felt as if the rain and the cold were happening for her. It makes it all a little easier. And right now, this is exactly what Sara needs. She is down, and she is having trouble. It is the worst night of her life.
He is angry. It is evident in the red, pulsating veins on his sweaty brow. It is evident in the tone of his voice, which is strained and exasperated. And it is evident in the soft tears that roll down Sara’s cheeks. She doesn’t usually cry. In her adult life there have been possibly two times she has actually let it out, really cried. When she learned her parents died, and when she promised her brother, on his deathbed, that she would try harder to make everything brighter. For him.
She is crying, but her face is still strong against the tempest of fury emanating from him. She can not show any sort of weakness. Not now. He is shouting, screaming almost but she can barely hear him. It doesn’t matter. At this point, she already knows what she’s going to do. What she’s going to tell him. Her hand makes a small fist around a handful of the blanket. The same blanket she had laid on and cried out in ecstasy not an hour earlier. Anger is rising in her now, but she forces it down, keeping it in check and her voice level.
“I still can’t fucking believe it,” he’s saying with a tone of incredulity, like she was insane for doing what she did. The anger rises higher. “Fucking ridiculous.” Like he wouldn’t do the same thing if it had happened with her. It had taken her weeks after coming home to step out of the house at all, she was sure he would be out before three days had passed. She couldn’t believe how he was acting, what he was saying. This was not the man she married. That man obviously died in the crash.
“I thought you were gone,” she says, softly and without malice, “I made all my choices like you were gone.” As she says the last part she trembles a bit and he can hear in her voice. It is easy to interpret this as a timidness, or even a shudder at the thought he was gone, so he feels as if he can strive ahead now with no penalty. He is wrong. She trembled at a thought she had when she said “gone.” She realized she wished he was really gone.
Unaware of this malicious subtlety, he pushes ahead violently in the argument, his words biting with venom and violence, “Someone like her, Sara? Someone like who she is? I thought you knew better.” This was a mistake to say. He has crossed a huge line, and the anger inside her comes out like a raging torrent.
“Fuck you!” she yells at him, “Who the fuck do you think you are?” She can no longer control it, it is like a wild animal having bared its teeth and claws. It’s all coming out now, if she likes it or not. “The next time you decide to fucking judge someone like that, so fucking blindly and idiotically, maybe you ought to fucking think about who they fucking are and think about the people who love them.” She stares straight into his eyes, no longer crying, and there is rage there like he has never seen. And now it’s all out there, ugly and awkward in the open. The ultimatum has been made, the battlefield razed and broken. He retreats into the kitchen silently, a dead look on his face. This is not the woman he married. She obviously died in the crash.
Sara stares at where he stood, fire and fury pouring out of her like a terrible and beautiful waterfall. She is almost catatonic, recovering from her outburst. Thinking she has a phone call to make and someone to tell something. And right at that moment of thought, as if on cue, the phone rings. Sara steels herself the best she can. And picks up the phone.
This is what Peter hears from the kitchen. “Hello?” Shaky, but calm. “Oh, hi Rachel.” He doesn’t know who Rachel is. Is that her? He feels the anger rising like bile, ready to eject itself in the form of words. Then he hears a gasp, soft and full of so much pain it rocks him. He hears the phone bang against the floor, loud in the small apartment. He walks slowly to the bedroom door. Sara is lying on the bed, hugging herself, staring with eyes so empty they could have belonged to a corpse.