In His Image

Content warning: language, abuse.

"Are you there, God? It's me, Rebecca." 

She was not the praying sort, but desperate times as they say. Her hands shook as she sorted the papers from the desk drawer. He had gone not ten minutes past and the adrenaline from holding things steady still carved its path through her nerves.

Gripping the pages, the tips of her thumb and forefinger smarted from snatching the bread from the toaster just a little past done that morning. Burning the toast was a bit unusual. The berating, the disappointment that followed was not.

"For God's sake."

"Sorry. I'm sorry. Here, let me-"

"Can't you do anything right?"

No. Nor was there ever any righting it, but she still had to try. It got worse for her if she didn't. You couldn't fix that which had not first been broken. If it took multiple knocks for it to stick, so be it.

Something had stuck, taken root. Another mistake, but perhaps an inevitable one. Unlike most of the ones that came before and the others that might follow after. A natural consequence built on the back of all-too-human error. For now there was no real evidence of it, but there would be in a matter of weeks, if not days. Hard to tell when he might pick up on it. He always did have a finger on the pulse of their household, attuned to every little blip.

A buzzer blared and Rebecca jumped. The papers scattered upon the desk. She took a quick, sharp inhale. Let it back out slower. It was only the dryer signal, a sound designed to cut through the bustle of a home, to alarm. Funny how it still startled, still pierced even after so many loads cycled through. She pressed her fingers against her rabbiting heart and let the sting of it displace and distract. Another breath, deeper and steadier, and then she sorted the rest of the papers back into their labeled folders.

The clothes still held residual heat when Rebecca pulled them from the dryer. Neutral shirts and loose trousers snapped as she shook them out and folded them into neat piles. Nothing like the fluttering hues and slim jeans of her youth, back when they had met. These clothes of hers were not even prim or particularly tidy, merely cheap and serviceable. Shapeless and indistinct. Like unformed clay.

The bulk of the clothes were his. As with most things in the house. He didn't like mess. Couldn't stand clutter. Everything in its place. And without much space in his two bedroom house, Rebecca got accustomed to living with less. What use did she have for earthly things anyway? She never did anything. Never went anywhere. She didn't need much, it turned out. A blessing in disguise.

Dinner simmered on the counter in a slow cooker Rebecca had picked up from the thrift store. He hadn't liked that she'd used some of the grocery allowance on it and while not quite as serious as cheating, not an outright deception, it seemed a little self-indulgent, a sign of encroaching laziness. But the low application of heat, the slow breakdown of tissue and stubborn fibres yielded a palatable flavour and the tenderest of meat. The results spoke for themselves.

The chuck roast needed a loaf of bread for sopping up the gravy. Maybe a dessert too in case he had the mood for one. Just because you didn't know which way the wind would blow didn't mean you didn't try to set your back to it. Rebecca was hopeless at baking though; no amount of pressure could force a square peg into a round hole. Hammer it too much and it would eventually fall clear through leaving behind unsightly fissures that were of no use to anyone.

It became a bit of a joke between them even.

"What's the difference between this scone and a hockey puck? The puck has more taste."

"Even a dog set loose in a grocery store could shit out something better tasting than this."

"No wonder they didn't want you around. Useless."

Rebecca had to laugh or at least manage a quirk of the lips that at a certain angle could have been a smile. With the wrong expression came the accusations. Too sensitive. Killjoy. Wipe that pathetic look off your face. For fuck's sake, are you crying again?

Back to the bread, the supermarket ten minutes' drive from there had an acceptable sourdough. It was too far to walk (though couldn't she use the exercise? But what about getting the groceries home? A cart wouldn't work in the snow and the milk would spoil in the heat. Fine.) and without public transit, Rebecca made the trip out once a week by car. She loved that supermarket. It had fresh produce, good selection, fair prices, and it allowed her a driver's license.

If she timed it right, Rebecca could occasionally stop by at the nearby library, or the thrift store, or the coffee shop where she met to sell the items she thrifted. Cash only. Prices firm. Sometimes she could swing it to meet further out, but not too far, and only if a bigger sale made it worth it. He tallied the gas receipts without fail.

One last sweep of the house before she left. Turn off all the lights. She cost him enough goddamn money already. Check that the bed covers were tucked in. (Of course they were. Hadn't she done it first thing?) Throw some clean clothes in a shopping tote, at least three days' worth. Collect the envelope of money taped to the bottom of the china hutch, her arm reaching so far back and up that the wooden edge left an indent in the skin of her arm. Stuff the personal documents she'd taken from his office into her purse; she'd never gotten this far before. Glance at the slow cooker on the counter bubbling away languidly and think of turning it to high and tucking the kitchen drapes around the fraying cord. Lock the door to the garage behind her, or don't. Does it make a difference?

Rebecca sat in the driver's seat, the engine not yet started. In the confines of the car, the dim quiet of the garage, the cusp of backing out sloped out of sight in the rearview mirror. She paused, not sure exactly for what; a feeling, a sign, a warning, maybe. The steering wheel under her palms was cool and solid. The same as always. As was the sweat forming. Rebecca tightened her grip. Her fingers slipped. She pressed them aching against her stomach. Too early for a flutter though her insides twisted all the same. A turn of the key, a shifting of the gears, and she reversed down the drive, waiting, waiting, for a reply.