Okely dokely,
It's time for the Muse Wars Writing Challenge Number Five. Really this time- I'm back on the horse.
Originally the brilliant idea of Melissa at The Things I'd Tell You, christened the Muse Wars by the MadMother when she set Challenge Two. Challenge Three by was set by the Menopausal Mumma, Challenge Four by yours truly. This time around, Challenge Five is set by the muchly awesome Gemma at Sometimes You Just Need To Vent. Here's another piccie of her, because she didn't like the last one I posted.
Anyone can play. You have 5oo words-ish, and 48 hours-ish (generally, but we got a bit slacko Jacko this time), to write whatever the muse whispers to you about this picture.
Sorcery or Seduction.
Marissa lay, foetal, on the starched, white sheets of an unforgiving bed. She was tempered, now, by an indecent cocktail of anti-depressants, anti- psychotics and sedatives. She had neither the will nor the inclination to fight the deepening fog that crept into her consciousness.
She didn't belong here. She was not as they said she was. She wasn't crazy, couldn't be. Why wouldn't he tell them? Where was he? Why hadn't he come to her defence?
This was his fault. Her husband. His fault, but not. Marissa had not believed him, not at first. He has sworn to her that the infidelity was not as it seemed. She had heard whispers, gossip mingled with truths, about her husband and That Woman. It had been just two days ago- such a short time?- that she had found the evidence, all the evidence she needed, underwear in the bed that was clearly not hers.
But he had explained, her husband had. Told her the truth. It was not a case of simple infidelity, not his weakness to resist That Woman's power of seduction.
It had been sorcery. Plain and simple. The townspeople's gossip had proved true on that account as well- The Woman. She was a witch.
And again, Marissa had found all the evidence she needed, in the field just outside of town.
The Woman, the very same Woman that had bewitched her husband. Arms outstretched, dancing in the electrified air. Conjuring a storm.
All the evidence she needed.
It had been her husband she had seen first, after the Act. Strong and grave, but no doubt pleased. Her husband.
It took her only a second to see the group coming up the hill behind him. The men of the town, the sheriff. Coming to take her away? The heavens opened, the storm broke, washing the blood from her clothes, from her hands, staining the white of her shirt pink. She waited for her husband to explain, to justify her actions, to speak on her behalf.
He uttered not a word.
Marissa, the white room, on the white, unforgiving bed, rolled to the wall with the last of her strength, closed her eyes, lost her fight. He would be here soon. Surely, her husband would be here soon.