The Orchid

it was Sunday, early evening sliding down slow and golden over the rooftops, the whole suburb breathing quiet like it knew something was coming apart next door, and there I was in my little garden, hearing them, that couple tearing into each other with screams that went on endless, raw rage ripping out of their throats like torn cloth in the wind, voices rising and cracking, no pause, no breath, just pure red fury spilling over the fence.

I leaned in closer, pushed the leaves aside gentle so they wouldn’t rustle, peered through the hedgerow thick with blossoms hanging heavy, purple and pink and blue petals trembling soft in the little breeze that was left, colours so tender against the hard thing unfolding right there in front of me,

he had his hands around her throat, big rough hands squeezing slow, deliberate, like he meant it this time, and her hands up in the air flailing wild and hopeless, fingers clawing at nothing, and then came the slap, hard hopeless slap cracking sharp through the air, echoing off the patio stones, a sound that landed nowhere but deeper into the mess of it all, pain on pain, and still the orchid on the patio kept blooming, blooming incessant like nothing was wrong, petals unfurling slow and purple in the dying light, defiant or blind I couldn’t tell.

and the pot plants all around it drinking in the last gentle Autumn warmth, leaves shining quiet, sucking up the sun like it was any other day, while inside the house the children sat still in front of the television, blue glow washing over their small faces, eyes fixed on cartoons or whatever flickered there, not moving, not turning, maybe hearing every scream and slap through the open door, maybe not, or hearing and staying put anyway because what else can you do when the world outside the screen goes mad, and the evening just kept coming down, slow, indifferent, beautiful, cruel.

resentment begins,
no safety net on the pool,
the toddler drowning.