My textual intervention

Rita climbs into bed, exhausted from the bickering her and her husband Darryl have been doing all day. As she gets herself comfortable and sinks into the only soft thing left in their marriage, she thinks of how they will fit. Together, the position of their bodies must be perfectly aligned with one another. This way her backbone will cut into his ribcage, whilst his knobbly knees automatically direct themselves the same way they've been made to face for all of these years. He likes it this way and she is well aware of this!  She notices how she feeds off Darryl's ignorance in times like this and it makes her wild. Back to back, each night they lie, all too aware of the fading passion, the inadequate loss of grace that each day has begun to present their bodies and minds with. If only things were different, life would be much easier. That consuming desire to do well would not be fuelled by the constant gruelling task of proving herself to him each day, failing in her miserable attempts to be seen as a successful person in his eyes. How important this is for her.


The weariness paints a perfect picture in their drawn out faces and it is evident that something in their long marriage is slipping away. But what? Rita feels that permeating sense of loneliness as ever present in her life and she hates it. She hates the power that it has over every aspect of her being and how she doesn't have the power to remove it. In her eyes, she sees the direct isolation, but falters over the reality of their actual togetherness. Their lives are a kaleidoscope of good and bad memories, a shifting stance in every situation, reflective of their time together. Emotions run through Rita as she shifts the weight of it all into streams of tears that pour from her swollen eyes and run down her flushed red cheeks. She can't fathom how it is that they can be so physically close yet the distance between them so painfully clear.

                                                     
As she closes her eyes, a vision of his violent supremacy over her fills the depths of her vacant body, struggling to stay contained in the depths of her moral construction. It's time to remove the rose coloured glasses and face the reality of her situation she thinks to herself. But it is never that easy, nothing is ever as easy. A bomb has detonated in her head and the smoke, suddenly, sharply projects from her mouth, choking in the back of her throat. In an effort to please herself she hurt the one person who loved her the most. How could Darryl have been so blind to her deception? She deserved every beating he ever gave her. For the inadequacy she once felt does not reign supreme, her pride seemingly victorious over all. She will not be defeated in the war she has waged for so long, her triumph seemingly near. She's now a nomad, roving the depths of the house she has spent far too much time away from, proving once and for all that direction was never the main issue. Her and Darryl look as if they are heading in the same direction now, however she's going to reach the destination first, she quietly assures herself.