Secret Place

Secret Place

Gideon rose from his place and headed for the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and scanned its few contents: an empty jug of milk, two Coke cans, a rotting roasted chicken carcass, moldy Swiss cheese. Maybe he should let Charisma bring home new groceries. The girl, his daughter, had to eat. April was eating somewhere – that was obvious from the slight fat that lined her face and body. But if Charisma came home with bags of groceries, it would only remind him of how she paid for it. With her money. From her job.
 What kind of man could not provide for his own family?
 The air was leaving him again. Gideon gasped for breath as he stumbled in the darkness, colliding into the kitchen sink. Fruit flies, crusted food, dirty dishes. The smell. He could not hold back the vomit. He put a quick hand over his mouth, but the effort was pointless, much like everything else he did. Pointless. Thankfully he had not eaten since yesterday morning, so there was not much for his stomach to empty. Even still, it meant more for him to clean, more for him to deal with.
 He needed to wash the dishes. He told Charisma he would wash them, refused to let her do it, made it clear that she could not do it. He needed to wash them, and now, thanks to his reaction to the smell, he had more of a reason to clean out the kitchen sink.
 Gideon stared at the faucet for several minutes. The dish detergent was next to the hot water spigot. ‘Joy,’ he read the bottle. He stared at the rusted steel pad and the stiff-dried plaid dishrag. The pots in the sink, the plates on the counter, the bowls and glasses on the table. The silverware. It was too much.
 Too much. Gideon gasped for air again as he fell into a nearby wooden seat, his head hitting the stained-glass chandelier that swung over the crowded table as he collapsed.
 Too much. Dishes all over the place. Where to begin. His head hurt. Pointless. Everything he did was pointless.
 The pill bottle still sat on the edge of the kitchen table. Still sat there, unopened. It was a sample given to him by a pharmaceutical representative for use in his practice; he’d kept it for himself. He could start taking them, the pills. Maybe he would even start to feel better if he took them.
 But if he took the pills, he grimaced, what would that say about his faith?
 “I claim healing in the name of Jesus.” The words felt foreign, empty in his mouth as a low moan took the place of an “Amen.”
 The pill bottle sat unopened.
 The question still blurred in his head.
 There was the knife. Gideon looked through the near darkness at the long black handle sticking out of a wooden block. Even with the blade hidden, he could picture it, feel the weight of it. Its jagged teeth and sharp point would sparkle in the dimly-lit kitchen like a multi-faceted diamond. The knife was there all the time. He looked at it everyday.

Secret Place Copyright © 2011 Leslie J. Sherrod. All rights reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Urban Books, LLC c/o Kensington Pub. Corp.