Pâle Septembre, chapter 8
"So you haven't seen it?" Claudia's anxious voice echoed though the phone, waves of static interrupting the panicked conversation.
"No, Claudia," Adrienne said calmly, cutting the apples for dinner, "Why don't you just tell me." She was getting a bit annoyed with Claudia's constant 'Oh my god, How could you have not seen it? No one's called you? Billie hasn't been told?'
"I can't," Claudia hushed her voice as if she was cussing in front of baby Jesus. "Look, just go to your local gas station and you'll immediately see what I'm talking about."
"Claw, I'm trying to make dinner, is it really that important? The boys come in an hour or so and I—"
"ADIE!" she literally screamed, causing Adrienne to pull the phone away from her ear a good 4 inches.
"Okay, okay," Adrienne reasoned, pulling the phone back and dropping her knife among the apple peelings. "What am I looking for?"
"Just go to the magazines—"
"Oh. Claw, if this is another "Billie and 'superficial supermodel' cheat collectively on Wife of 7 years" I swear to God I'm going to—"
"No, no, no," Claudia shrieks, "Just go!"
Adrienne rolled her eyes and she grabbed her car keys, "Right then, bye Claudia."
"WAIT!" Adrienne pulled the phone away again, rubbing her temple with her free hand.
"Yes?" She asked patiently.
"Tell me first thing, if it's true," Claudia hushed her voice again. She wasn't just cussing in front of baby Jesus, she was listing a number of victims she's soon to slaughter. "Promise me, I want to help."
For a split second panic took on a solid form and was constantly hammering it's way into Adrienne's numbed body. Could they know? Could they have told that they had indeed raped the rockstar of the year's dearly beloved? No one is that stupid to admit to raping someone... but could someone have seen? Adrienne leaned bracingly against the door, the phone hanging loosely in her hand.
"What are you talking about?" she said in a tiny voice, her eyes closed—dreading the answer.
"Just go, Adrienne, call me first thing." And with that, she hung up leaving Adrienne alone, and desperately afraid.
She walked briskly into the gas station, eyes alert and searching. She strode over to the magazine isle, her eyes scanning the rows of revealing skin, triumphant wins, latest fashion victims, new celebrity babies, stock markets—
The whole time the simple thought racing across her mind, "You've done so well forgetting. You've done so well."
Her eyes caught on a bolded black font—Armstrong. She read the title hurriedly, her eyes flashing over the cover in anticipation and worry.
They didn't know. They had no idea. She breathed out a long sigh of relief, her hand covering her speeding heart—they hadn't found out.
Wait.
She opened her eyes abruptly, hands flying for the magazine.
"Adrienne Armstrong: Victim of Spouse Related Physical Abuse?"
Her mouth flew open as she studied the front cover closely—the picture of her and Jakob leaving his school, and circled in bright red and magnified for emphasize was the colossal bruise on her arm.
"What the fuck?" she exclaimed in an elevated confusion, causing many stares throughout the store. She tore through the pages for the story to be greeted with equally devastating pictures—one of Billie grabbing her wrist, another of a bruise on the side of her neck, Jakob crying relentlessly on Adrienne's shoulder, Billie looking unhappy at a bus stop.
There were claims. People swearing they witnessed Billie raising his voice at Adrienne before grabbing her arms violently and yanking her forward. Another claim says Adrienne has been wearing longer and more modest clothing to hide the result of such a relationship.
A small margin on the side listed possible causes for such a tragedy—drugs, unfaithful motives, sex obsessions, mental disabilities, children problems.
She shut the magazine—her heart rate back up again as tears welled in her eyes. Others were connecting the dots, sympathy forming on their faces—but utter confusion dominating their looks. She felt trapped—how could they even print such things. Billie wasn't even capable of such crimes, even in his drunkest self. What the fuck were they going to do?
.
She tore open the door, finding her husband in the kitchen—jumping up and waving the same magazine she was in front of her face.
"What the fuck?" they both vociferated simultaneously, grabbing the other's magazine to make sure it was true.
There was a mind rattling silence after, each looking bewildered but ultimately accepting the fact that nothing they could say here would lessen this catastrophe. Billie sat down solemnly on the kitchen table, Adrienne not even bothering to shoo him off her newly cleaned table top.
He started down at the lamented cover, her fingers running over the smooth surface. "What are we going to do?" he asked in quiet voice, his pride obviously abused and beaten, "How could anyone even think I'd do this to you? I can't even look at it without feeling sick."
Adrienne swooped to his side, grabbing his hand and throwing the magazine aside. "Billie, we can fix this can't we? We can talk to Warner Brothers and see what goes down, right?" she sounded hopeful yet helplessly naïve.
Billie nodded silently, his hand tightening around hers and he studied the creases in his jeans. He was being awfully quite, Adrienne assuming the event had silenced him soulless—however.
"Adrienne," Billie said softly, looking up at her with concerned eyes, "Where are the bruises from?"
"No, Claudia," Adrienne said calmly, cutting the apples for dinner, "Why don't you just tell me." She was getting a bit annoyed with Claudia's constant 'Oh my god, How could you have not seen it? No one's called you? Billie hasn't been told?'
"I can't," Claudia hushed her voice as if she was cussing in front of baby Jesus. "Look, just go to your local gas station and you'll immediately see what I'm talking about."
"Claw, I'm trying to make dinner, is it really that important? The boys come in an hour or so and I—"
"ADIE!" she literally screamed, causing Adrienne to pull the phone away from her ear a good 4 inches.
"Okay, okay," Adrienne reasoned, pulling the phone back and dropping her knife among the apple peelings. "What am I looking for?"
"Just go to the magazines—"
"Oh. Claw, if this is another "Billie and 'superficial supermodel' cheat collectively on Wife of 7 years" I swear to God I'm going to—"
"No, no, no," Claudia shrieks, "Just go!"
Adrienne rolled her eyes and she grabbed her car keys, "Right then, bye Claudia."
"WAIT!" Adrienne pulled the phone away again, rubbing her temple with her free hand.
"Yes?" She asked patiently.
"Tell me first thing, if it's true," Claudia hushed her voice again. She wasn't just cussing in front of baby Jesus, she was listing a number of victims she's soon to slaughter. "Promise me, I want to help."
For a split second panic took on a solid form and was constantly hammering it's way into Adrienne's numbed body. Could they know? Could they have told that they had indeed raped the rockstar of the year's dearly beloved? No one is that stupid to admit to raping someone... but could someone have seen? Adrienne leaned bracingly against the door, the phone hanging loosely in her hand.
"What are you talking about?" she said in a tiny voice, her eyes closed—dreading the answer.
"Just go, Adrienne, call me first thing." And with that, she hung up leaving Adrienne alone, and desperately afraid.
She walked briskly into the gas station, eyes alert and searching. She strode over to the magazine isle, her eyes scanning the rows of revealing skin, triumphant wins, latest fashion victims, new celebrity babies, stock markets—
The whole time the simple thought racing across her mind, "You've done so well forgetting. You've done so well."
Her eyes caught on a bolded black font—Armstrong. She read the title hurriedly, her eyes flashing over the cover in anticipation and worry.
They didn't know. They had no idea. She breathed out a long sigh of relief, her hand covering her speeding heart—they hadn't found out.
Wait.
She opened her eyes abruptly, hands flying for the magazine.
"Adrienne Armstrong: Victim of Spouse Related Physical Abuse?"
Her mouth flew open as she studied the front cover closely—the picture of her and Jakob leaving his school, and circled in bright red and magnified for emphasize was the colossal bruise on her arm.
"What the fuck?" she exclaimed in an elevated confusion, causing many stares throughout the store. She tore through the pages for the story to be greeted with equally devastating pictures—one of Billie grabbing her wrist, another of a bruise on the side of her neck, Jakob crying relentlessly on Adrienne's shoulder, Billie looking unhappy at a bus stop.
There were claims. People swearing they witnessed Billie raising his voice at Adrienne before grabbing her arms violently and yanking her forward. Another claim says Adrienne has been wearing longer and more modest clothing to hide the result of such a relationship.
A small margin on the side listed possible causes for such a tragedy—drugs, unfaithful motives, sex obsessions, mental disabilities, children problems.
She shut the magazine—her heart rate back up again as tears welled in her eyes. Others were connecting the dots, sympathy forming on their faces—but utter confusion dominating their looks. She felt trapped—how could they even print such things. Billie wasn't even capable of such crimes, even in his drunkest self. What the fuck were they going to do?
.
She tore open the door, finding her husband in the kitchen—jumping up and waving the same magazine she was in front of her face.
"What the fuck?" they both vociferated simultaneously, grabbing the other's magazine to make sure it was true.
There was a mind rattling silence after, each looking bewildered but ultimately accepting the fact that nothing they could say here would lessen this catastrophe. Billie sat down solemnly on the kitchen table, Adrienne not even bothering to shoo him off her newly cleaned table top.
He started down at the lamented cover, her fingers running over the smooth surface. "What are we going to do?" he asked in quiet voice, his pride obviously abused and beaten, "How could anyone even think I'd do this to you? I can't even look at it without feeling sick."
Adrienne swooped to his side, grabbing his hand and throwing the magazine aside. "Billie, we can fix this can't we? We can talk to Warner Brothers and see what goes down, right?" she sounded hopeful yet helplessly naïve.
Billie nodded silently, his hand tightening around hers and he studied the creases in his jeans. He was being awfully quite, Adrienne assuming the event had silenced him soulless—however.
"Adrienne," Billie said softly, looking up at her with concerned eyes, "Where are the bruises from?"
