1989 - The Narratives - Clean

 For the first time in ten months, the garden was fresh, green, vital. Yet, the memory of the dust remained. It lingered, dry in her throat, refusing to be parched by even the most violent and tumultuous of thunderstorms. 

Her gaze swept over the terracotta pots that were scattered across her handkerchief-sized garden. It rested on the biggest one, th brightest before the drought. It had housed the most sumptuous of roses, violently red like the passion of their love. She closed her eyes, remembering how the perfume had drifted lazily over their bodies as they lay under the watch of the dying sun. 

All those months, back and forth, until she had finally said, enough! One way or the other. 

And he had chosen the other. 

And that was it. The rain stopped falling. The butterflies died and littered her room, decaying awfully to dust. Dry, thirsty, like everything else in this cracked and dying land. 

She looked down at her dress, the one she'd worn on the night of his departure. She could still see the mascara stained teardrops, the smudge of his eyeliner. She had screamed when he left, but no one heard her pain, there was no hero on a white horse to sweep her out of this agony. 

Still looking at her dress, she knew she had to make a change. 

It was a warm day. Sweat already clung to the nape of her neck. She stripped and held the dress in her hand. Slowly, uncertainly, she tore it. After that, it was easy. The shredding was cathartic. She looked at the pieces in her hand and refused to let them represent her. She dropped them, picked up her hammer, and walked over to her foe. The terracotta pot stood defiantly, calling her bluff. She hesitated, felt the hammer slip an inch out of her grip. 

But then she remembered the rains had come. They had wanted her to be clean. She felt something on her scalp and reached up to touch the drops starting to cling to her hair. 

She smiled. She reached into the bottom of the pot for the roots of the thing, and lifted it out - once so majestic, the thing was dead and withered. She walked, carefully, deliberately, to the end of the garden and threw it over the fence.

Turning to the pot, her smile became a grimace. She picked up the hammer once more, and made the first blow. A tiny crack, almost inconsequential, but a crack to be sure. Soon enough, the pot - lie the dress - lay in pieces, wrecked, but she stood tall and glorious. 

This time, when she reached for her glass of water, the memory of the dust disappeared.