IMELDA

Dear Scott,

Last night I had the strangest dream…

I was curled up on my sofa watching Eastenders. I must have been exhausted because the sound of Peggy Mitchell’s voice screaming ‘Get outta my pub!’ didn’t cause my eyeballs to roll 360 degrees in their sockets. I didn’t realise I had dozed off till the sound of the doorbell interrupted my slumber. Dragging myself up, I staggered to the door and opened it to find a woman with a pair of swollen red eyes staring back at me.

‘Does the fact that he’s married mean nothing to you?,’ she asked.

I had never seen the woman in my life.

‘I’m sorry, who are you and how can I help you?’

‘You can help me by staying the hell away from my husband!’

‘Your husband? Who the hell is your husband and why would you think I’d want to go anywhere near him?’

‘Don’t you dare deny it,’ she screamed, ‘I’ve been following you the last couple of weeks and I’ve seen it with my own eyes; you and Scott, carrying on like love struck teens, with no regard for the damage you’re doing to my family!’

‘Scott?’ I asked in disbelief.

‘Yes, Scott. Scott Daniels, my husband and the father of my children!’

I woke up this morning to find that it wasn’t a dream.

How could you Scott?!

Tell me that the last eighteen months of my life haven’t been a dream. Tell me that the woman who turned up at my doorstep was delusional, that she’s schizophrenic. Tell me that the baby growing inside of her wasn’t fathered by you. Two children Scott, and another on the way and you didn’t think I’d want to know that? You didn’t think I’d want to know that you have pledged, before heaven and the saints, to love and honour another woman till do you apart?

I remember the weekend we spent in Paris. We climbed those endless stairs leading up to Sacre Coeur, desperate to find healing for our wounded hearts. I lit a candle for our baby and knelt at the altar, praying that God would look after him in heaven.  You knelt beside me, your arms cradling me. As we sat in the pews, weeping silently and hoping that God would come down and explain things to us, you told me how desperately you wanted a child. You told me how much you loved me and wanted to spend the rest of your life crafting happier memories with me. Right there, with Jesus and the angels looking down on us, we painted a picture of our future; it was perfect.

How could you Scott?!

I remember the moment we met like it was yesterday. We still argue about who bumped into who, not that agreeing would have changed anything. You shirt would still have soaked up my over priced filter coffee. You look on your face as you squealed, ‘Jesus Christ’ was comical. I couldn’t hold back my laughter and was so grateful you had a sense of humour. To this day the sight of a red and white checkered shirt brings a smile to my face.

The attraction was instant. I looked into your eyes and knew you were someone special. You’re special alright. Only a rare breed of man can look another person in the eye and lie so convincingly, day in, day out, for five hundred and forty eight days.

How could you Scott?!

When I woke up this morning the first thing I did was reach for the album, the one you made me with all our pictures in it. Remember that picture we took on the beach in Antigua? The one where you were lying on the sun lounger and I sat straddling you? The words your eyes spoke as they stared into mine?  How could that not be real?!

If you never tell me another true word in your life, tell me this…Did you, do you REALLY love me?

Imelda

NOTE: This IS a short story. It was written as an assignment for a writing class. There is no sequel you sequel hunters!☺

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4 comments

  1. oh girl! This one is painful sha…
    But perhaps the girl should not have been conceiving a child with a man she was not married to no matter how “special” he seemed.

    p.s. thanks for explaining that it was fiction…I was afeared for a second there!

    Like

  2. Hmm, Agbada don hook wire o! It was totally Imelda’s responsibility to find out if Scott was married or otherwise, twas unwise to jump into bed with him. Wetin go happen to dat innocenti pickin now?! Abeg u gast to write part 2!

    Like

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