Christine stubbed out another cigarette in the ceramic ashtray on the coffee table. The nicotine numbed her throat and calmed her down. The living room was filled with smoke.
She felt like she was losing her mind. She'd never felt such anger before, such frustration. Wasn't wasn't anyone helping her? Didn't John care that there was hardly any food to fill his child's stomach? Didn't anyone care?
They never cared. That's why Chris bought her child's clothes secondhand, why her girl's shoes were scuffed before she ever wore them and why the house was sometimes so freezing that they'd sometimes have to sleep in sweaters over their pajamas.
She drank cheap wine, wore clothes that were five years outdated, and came home every night smelling like a pub. Her nails were crusted with paint and oil pastels from the art classes she taught, never coming out no matter how hard she scrubbed.
Why did she bother at all when the odds were against her?
YOU ARE READING
Say you love me
RandomJohn Mcvie and Christine Perfect met by chance in 1968. Here's my perspective of their love, gains, and losses during the wild ride that is Fleetwood Mac
