The Wall

The Wall by Amanda Carpenter

Book: The Wall by Amanda Carpenter Read Free Book Online
Authors: Amanda Carpenter
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the
    time. What did she have to get up for? Where did she have to go?
    Whom did she get to look forward to meeting? These questions and
    others plagued her throughout the small remainder of the morning.
    She didn't bother to get dressed; she wasn't going to get out of the
    house, and no one would be seeing her.
    After feeling so good about herself for a long stretch of time, this
    depression hit her hard. She listlessly made herself a cup of tea and
    took it into the living room. Setting the cup down on the coffee table,
    she took the time to belt her dressing gown more firmly around her
    small waist before sitting down. Just as she was sinking into a curled-
    up position on the couch, a firm knock sounded at the front door,
    making her nearly jump out of her skin. She stared at the rectangular
    frame of wood, as if expecting someone to bash down the door and
    force an entry into the house. Who in the world could be wanting to
    see her? Perhaps it was someone who had taken a wrong turn off the
    nearby highway, and wanted to know directions. Sara considered this
    possibility for a moment with her head cocked to one side, as the
    knocking turned to imperative pounding, and she decided that it
    couldn't be that. The road was little more than a hard-packed dirt
    path, and was obscure. It was impossible to mistake the way, and
    impossible not to find the way back to the highway. All one had to do
    was turn around.
    She slipped quietly up to the door and peered through the peephole
    with curiosity—then recoiled as if stung. Greg's tall commanding
    frame fully filled the small magnifying glass, his dark face looking
    sombre, even stern. She didn't like that look. It frightened her. She
    backed away from the door and climbed on to the couch slowly,
    watching her front curtained windows as if she expected him to crash
    into the room. He didn't, but the pounding continued for some
    minutes, along with his deep voice calling her.
    'Sara? Sara!' he shouted through the door. 'I know you're in there,
    because your car is in the garage. Let me in, please! I want to talk to
    you. Sara? Are you all right?'
    She picked up her cup of tea and sipped it carefully, listening to his
    calling. Finally, seemingly to take ages in her mind, the calling
    stopped and footsteps sounded on the small wooden porch. She
    sighed and began to relax, only just then realising how tensely she
    had been holding herself. That was why when she heard hard
    knocking at her back door, and the rattle of her door knob, she
    jumped like a startled colt. Unable to help herself, she crept into the
    kitchen to listen to Greg calling to her, a thread of impatience
    running through his deep voice. Eventually he stopped, and she went
    about the small routine of fixing herself another cup of tea. After
    staring at the wall opposite the couch for quite some time and
    consuming several cups of tea, she finally managed to rouse herself
    enough to take a shower. Leaving her hair wet and hanging limply
    down her back, with the dressing gown belted once more about her
    waist, she padded into the living room, seating herself at the old
    upright piano and stared at the keys with sadness.
    She wanted to play but couldn't seem to find it within herself. She
    wanted to be creative and work out a new, strange melody to
    adequately describe just what she was feeling inside, but she couldn't
    seem to pick up her heavy hands and play. She wanted to sing, to
    pour out her guts and to fill the room with her voice, to release all
    that was inside and aching to get out, but the music just wasn't there.
    For the first time in her life, Sara couldn't play.
    She sat looking down at her hands, and tears slid down her face.
    What had she done to herself? Had she really damaged her own
    music beyond repair? She couldn't accept that. Her music would
    always be with her. It was as much a part of herself as her breathing
    and thinking. She would only lose her music when she laid down her
    head and died.

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