Cold. I have always loved the cold. Winter is my favorite season by far, and has been since I was eight. My first kiss, first taste of canned peaches, and first love all in this icy time of year. The stinging wind hitting my cheeks; my body bundled in warm coats and various bits of fabric; The distinctive crunch of the lightly packed snow under foot, and the white glaze smeared about the barren trees clumped together. It was as if the skeletal remains of the once vivid green forest were huddling up for warmth, and they needed one another to survive. Survival, my survival. I aspire to survive. I will live to love, and I love to live.
OCTOBER 31, 2008


Sitting at home (as usual) I began picking at the the rough fabric covering the couch. It is 4:30. He’s going to be barreling through the front door soon, probably with a cigarette in his chapped, curled, beet red lips, and a soaking wet jacket thrown over his slouched and rubbery shoulders. It has rained for the past four days, as it is normal for the state of Washington. I tear at the corner of the lumpy cushion, my nerves feeling as though they have started a riot. I stand up quickly. four thirty-seven. Walking to the kitchen, I pick up the basket of clothing that I was supposed to have put away some forty-five minutes ago. Folding shirt after shirt, I stare at the clock in anticipation. Four thirty-nine. Four forty-six. Four forty-seven. Minutes turn to hours, and the clock comes to a stand still. I stack the clean clothing in the laundry basket, and hurry them to the bedroom where I swiftly put them in the closet and drawers. Whites, darks, lights. He needs them categorized, and placed in the correct spots. I leaned over and began stacking the darks in the correct drawer. Filling the dresser, I set the basket on the bed and walked back into the living room and placed myself on the couch. I zone out, pushing my consciousness into hibernation, as I normally do right before he comes home. I begin thinking of my choices, my life, my sensations, my normal routines. Then I dig deeper, why am I here? What is this place? What am I? Do I live for some special reason? That one gets me. Do I live for a reason at all? I live because I chose to. I live because I want to.

Four fifty-three. I break out of my trance, staring at the clock subconsciously. I twitch as the timepiece slowly clicks over to four fifty-four. My eyes glued to it, I pull at my skirt. six minutes. five minutes. Hopping up, I pull my mind from the torturous time-relaying device hanging on the pale brown wall. I roll my eyes over to the fridge. Walking to the black monolith I swiftly open it. Pulling at the handle, I drool at the contents of the ice box. Chicken, whipped cream, pickles, apples, oranges, milk, peppers, dried fruit, broccoli, lettuce... My mind wanders as I stare into the fridge. Food. *click. My head jolts up to read the clock. Four fifty-eight. I slam the door shut, standing upright and slowly making my way over to the front door, checking everything on my way. Phone is hung up. Pillows on the couch. Bathroom door shut. No its open. I hurry over to it, shutting it tight. Four fifty-nine. I feel myself slipping away, my body getting ready for what is about to happen. I pull out a kitchen knife and place it in the back of the waistband of my skirt, pulling my blouse over top of it so it isn’t visible. I place myself next to the couch, careful not to stand too close to the coffee table or the lamp desk. I click the lamp on, the darkness I was engulfed in now coming to light. My eyes cringe at the bright orb, overwhelmed by its new existence. Click, clock, its your final tock. Five o’clock. I stand in the dull room, awaiting what will inevitably come to me. There is a light rapping at the door, that of a small fist. I speed over to the door, and look through the peep hole. I reach for the deadbolt, pulling it open. I unlatch the dead-bolt ever so slowly. My palms pruned from sweat, I rub them on my rumpled blouse. I reach down and grab the brass door knob. Click. The door slides open, and before me is a police woman, about 5’ 4. She is holding a clipboard filled with papers.
“Is this the Tommlin residence?” she croaks.
“Yes, is there something I can help you with?” I retort, my hands now slick with sweat. “Your husband has not been seen at work for the past 2 ½ weeks. Is he home?” I stare at her, my face blank.
“No, he left me about a week ago.” She looked at me, and stared.
“Could I come in for a minute?”
My adrenaline began pumping as she stepped over the threshold. My face beet red and my mind racing, just the thought of it happening made my mind tear apart. I carefully followed her around the house as she glanced at everything. She noticed all of the doors were closed in the apartment.
“Do you mind if I look around a bit?” I stared at her, my mind mangled into what seemed to be a gruesome car wreck. I nodded my head, my body on autopilot while my brain stabbed itself repeatedly. She walked over to the bedroom, and opened the door. She tried to flip the light switch, but it didn't work.
“Oh i'm sorry, I have to replace the bulbs in all of the light fixtures in the house. None of the switches will do anything.” she looked at me after I told her, her face very suspicious. She left the bedroom alone, and walked over to the bathroom. Twisting the knob slowly, she opened the door. Pulling out a small flashlight, she inspected the dark room. She closed the door.
“Excuse me for one second.” I walked into my room, closing the door behind me as my brain screamed incessantly at me. I sit on the floor, the sound of the clock clicking through my mind, echoing in my ears over and over again. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Tick. Tiiiicccckkkk. CLICK. My head jerks and I fling the door open, my hand scratching into my back as I grab for the knife. I grip the carpet, thrashing my way into the kitchen. Standing with her gun drawn, a semi-automatic .38 special, was the police woman, the fridge door swung open with my husband's body hanging from the inside.

My name is Harper Rain Tommlin. I killed my husband last week with a brick, and stuffed his body in the refrigerator. I am a victim of abuse.