Preface: I wrote this in tenth grade, when I was sixteen. So it was about four years ago... Comparing it to link which was written four weeks ago, it's interesting to see the changes in those four years. I would love to discuss that. I've updated it for Fanpop, editing and tweaking it from the original which can be found link.



It was probably nothing different to little Ellen, munching ever so innocently on a good-tasting set of keys in the corner, surrounded by blocks and the spilt contents of her poor mother’s purse. Mrs. Shaw had neglected to put the purse out of her dear child’s reach and was now neglecting to notice that her lipstick was about to be swimming in the baby’s stomach.

Her mind was on other things…

Eleanor was in her homely kitchen with its yellow curtains and linoleum flooring. The design was quite generic, identical to dozens of other kitchens that could be found on her block, full of houses crafted from the same floor plan. And yet, it was Eleanor’s sanctuary, perhaps because it was the only thing that was normal; the only thing that she had complete control over. It was the only thing she had in common with everyone else on her block. For eight years she toiled in that kitchen, baking roast beef and soufflés for her husband’s business associates. And everything here was always exactly where she left it.

At that particular moment, as her daughter became fascinated with mommy’s car keys once more, Eleanor was preparing a steak and staring absently out the window. Her yellow dress with its tiny blue flowers almost matched her curtains and her dyed blonde hair was sitting in a loose bun atop her head. She was awaiting her husband’s return from the office at 6:30. Roger was a good man, who gave his wife everything she needed but attention. He kept her isolated from the world like a dove in a gilded cage, displaying her like a prize at business parties and always latching defensively onto her arm in public as if she would fly away or be stolen like the Rolex watch he wore on his wrist. The only times Eleanor left the house without her husband was to run small errands, such as buying the groceries or taking little Ellen to daycare. Her only release and real friends were the soap operas and game shows she watched while folding Roger’s laundry.

She remembered every single minute of every day of the last eight years because each was identical to the last. Monotony is a difficult flavor to get out of one's mouth, let alone one's mind. Every day, she watched the clock and awaited Roger's return. At 6:30 precisely, and he was never late. She often wished he was, if only to break the vicious cycle that had consumed her life. She had watched her youth fade away, and yet she felt as if she had gone nowhere, a hamster on a wheel, perpetually spinning.

She looked up at the minute hand, which was ticking closer and closer to the twenty-minute line. Roger should arrive in ten minutes. Exactly.

Eleanor smiled to herself, fantasizing of his return. Even the pleasantries they exchanged daily were identical, part of her routine.

“Good evening dear,” he would say with a peck on the cheek. “How was your day?”

And she would give him a detailed description of her dull day doing his chores, sounding glad to be of such a help to her beloved, and delighting in the minute amount of attention he paid her at that moment. It was her favorite time of day when Roger came home.

After she had properly greeted him, they would sit down to a lovely dinner she had prepared previously. Tonight it was to be a delicious prime rib with broccoli and baked potato. She looked forward to slicing into the red meat.

Without a word, she set the table and played with the floral arrangement in the vase in the center of the dining room table. Everything must be perfect. She looked at her watch and noted that Roger should be home any minute. She glanced up at the front door expectantly, with the ghost of a smile gracing her painted red lips.

Swiftly and charmingly she swept back into her tiny kitchen like a specter, as silent as a winter night. She prepared one serving of her delectable meal and put the utensils she had used to prepare it in the sink, ready to wash after Roger came home. Suddenly, dear Ellen started shrieking for her mother’s attentions.

Automatically, Eleanor walked gracefully to the living room corner where her daughter was complaining of an upset stomach from the previously swallowed lipstick. She lifted the babe tenderly as she had done so many times in the past and reflexively stroked the child’s back and soothed Ellen’s ailment with a light lullaby as sweet and quiet as the nightingale. She bounced the baby up and down as she cooed unintelligibly into Ellen's soft hair and slowly climbed the stairs until she reached the girl's small bedroom. It was adorned with pink butterflies and a mobile featuring the same insect in yellows and greens.

Gazing at her daughter lovingly, Eleanor carefully placed the calm child into her crib and turned out the lights to return downstairs to the kitchen.

She was in the kitchen when she heard the front door open. Her strange smile widened as she heard her dear Roger’s voice.

“Eleanor dear, where are you?” he called. “How was your day?” She heard the scrape of chair legs as he seated himself at the dining room table, expecting his dinner.

Eleanor opened the drawer next to the sink evenly and reached in to retrieve her husband’s prize.

As if she had done it three thousand times, every day for eight years, Eleanor Shaw swept beautifully into the dining room like the ingénue she’d once been and greeted her seated husband with a bullet to the head.

His corpse was frozen to the chair with that plastic, businesslike smile plastered to his face. She calmly paced back into her pristine kitchen and placed the steel revolver in her drawer, where she always kept it. Mechanically, she washed her hands and sat down to eat her steak dinner across from her husband, as she had done for the last eight years.

Little Ellen remained unfazed, asleep in her bed upstairs. He was away so much, she wasn't even sure if she had a father or just a strange man who would hold her too tight and make her cry. What happened downstairs seemed nothing different to her than what happened every day in their tiny yellow house.