Photo by Oswaldo Ibanez
The Windows of Belinda
Flash Fiction
Like in prison, suffocating, Belinda lives in Manhattan in her husband’s spacious penthouse apartment. More rooms than they need—three bedrooms, a library, study, sunroom, a kitchen with two islands. A bathroom with a sauna and a hot tub. Sunlight floods the place, yet darkness surrounds her on this Saturday afternoon, and most days.
The open windows let a chilly breeze linger through, and on the blue sofa, Belinda squeezes up into a ball. Silent. Aloof. At the oval dining room table, Stan shovels shrimp into his mouth. The flowery-motif, heavy curtains dance.
Her dress spreads out around her like the flesh of ripe pineapples, feet peeking out in a shimmer. Dark hair pulled up, crowning her head. Soft hands are clutching a sheer shawl wrapped around her bare shoulders. On the red oak floor, her white sling-backs stand abandoned. Never worn.
Cocktail sauce drips on his green polo shirt. He wipes it off with the smooth damask napkin, cursing. Crumbling the cloth, he throws it back on the lavish table by Belinda's clean plate.
“I’m well aware of how much you wanted to go.” He's facing ahead, keeping his back toward her. She doesn’t matter at all. “But it doesn’t work like that. We don’t get everything we want.” His voice spreads, condescending.
She wants to jump up and run. But frozen, she sits as if waiting to thaw.
“Money doesn’t grow on trees; I work hard,” he adds, chewing his food.
Heat rising in her head by the monotone sounds, she closes her eyes. She wants to scream, but with her palms, she smooths her dress and takes a deep breath.
“It cost nothing,” she whispers, staring at the back of his head.
“Nothing’s for free,” he says, flippant.
“I needed to be there as a volunteer hostess.” Isn't this important to him? The wife of his boss asked her to help. The event aims to collect funds to buy art supplies for gifted and underprivileged children. A cause she believes in.
“Your job, Belinda, is to be pretty when I want you to be. The company’s Christmas party we’ll attend.” He pushes the platter forward, knocking it into his crystal goblet. The red wine spills, staining the white tablecloth. Like blood. “Go, put away the gown.”
A month before, in September, he confirmed they would attend the charity ball. He bought her the outfit. “Did you forget?” She asks.
Stan leaps up, pushing his chair back with a loud screech. “I’m the VP of Marketing, not sitting around at home! My memory is not impaired. Not in any way.” In measured steps, he walks toward her, crossing his brows. “Do as I say.” His voice thunders above, shattering her self-respect.
After two years of marriage, Stan finally allowed Belinda to travel and see her parents. Last winter. Not alone, of course. He didn’t let her out of his sight except for a few hours when he went with her father to watch a game of soccer and left her to help her mother cook.
Belinda told her mother she wanted to leave him.
“Stay and bear it,” her mother instructed and turned to tend the pot on the stove.
“Mama, I live in his shadow.” Belinda sobbed, picking up another potato. “He won’t let me have a key to our home.” She clenched the knife harder.
“There are good days and bad days. Be patient.” Her mother glanced at Belinda with a solemn face. “Not every woman can say she’s the wife of such a wealthy man.”
“I’m part of the decor. Stan forbids me from going outside alone.”
“Perhaps he’s protecting you. You’d get lost in the big city. Without proper English—”
“He says I can’t go to school. So when will I learn enough?”
“You were eighteen, Belinda. You had to know what to expect.” Mama turned away, grabbing a wooden spoon. “I warned you. Educated rich men don’t marry lower unless the power over their women or the youth of her excites them, and he’s not an old man.”
Belinda dropped the pealed potato into the bowl of water. “I want to come home, please, talk to Dad.” She grasped her mother’s arm.
“You wanted to die for him.”
“I didn’t know him; I was too young.”
“You would’ve cried your eyes out if we didn’t let you go.” Mama freed her arm and stirred the stew. “You made your bed.”
Belinda’s throat tightened. In silence, she resumed pealing potatoes. The shame of failure and to be the talk of the village, she could’ve borne, but not her father’s wrath.
Belinda slowly rises under Stan’s scrutiny, ready to go take off and hang the dress. A helpless child hiding inside a grown woman’s body—with no skills to survive out in the world—she’s forced to adhere to her husband’s commands.
“Clear the table before you come to bed,” Stan says, “and put on the black silk negligee I chose for tonight. The one by the dresser laid out. Don't be late. Make sure you leave the stockings on.” He disappears into his office, leaving her standing like a tree rooted in concrete.
This summer, Belinda called her mother and pleaded, “Why can't I move back home?”
“I’ve worked hard all my life. A slave to your father. Yet you don’t see me running away.”
“It’s the way he looks at me… talks to me.”
“Stan pays all the bills, working long hours, and puts fancy food on the table. For sure, you got no say.”
“It makes me feel worthless. Mama, please—”
“Don’t tell your father! If you cleaned windows for a living, I’d respect you, but not while you sit without care and you complain.” The phone went silent.
That day, she promised herself she won't call Mama for help.
Belinda never wanted to die. Yet she knows if she stays with Stan, she’ll always be dead inside.
She gazes at the open windows and walks over.
The scent of freedom fills her lungs, though still out of her reach, as she delights in the beauty and color of autumn leaves. For long minutes, she stands with her fingertips hovering over the windowpane. The glass gleams in the last rays of the setting sun as she presses her thumb against it, swiping, making a squeaking sound.
She closes the windows, smiling. Her mother is right. Belinda has a skill she can use to get out. She grabs a piece of paper and writes, “I clean windows…”
Photo by Alex Knight
The Author
E. Izabelle Cassandra Alexander writes short stories, creative nonfiction essays, flash fiction, plays, and poetry. She's also working on a few novels, a series of children's books, and illustrations.
Her work has been published in Spark Literary Journal 2016, 2018, 2019, & 2020, in the Illinois State Poetry Society’s (ISPS) Anthology, Distilled Lives, Volume 4, 2018, and on the ISPS website, 2017-2019, in Yearning to be Free by The Moonstone Art Center, 2019, by The Scarlet Leaf in 2018 & 2020, by WOW! Women on Writing, 2019 & 2020, by The Book Smuggler's Den, 2019, Tint Journal, 2020, Unlimited Literature (UL-LitMag), 2020-2022, Ariel's Dream, 2020-2022, Pages & Spine, 2020, Beautiful Words by Ariel Publishing, 2020, 2021 & 2022, L.eX | Literary Excellence, 2020, 2021, & 2022, The Bookend Review, 2021, and more.
Author/Critique Site: https://izabelle2012.wixsite.com/izabelle
Facebook: www.facebook.com/E.IzabelleAlexander
Twitter: Twitter.com/IzabelleAlexan3
Patreon: www.patreon.com/IzabelleAlexander
E. Izabelle Cassandra Alexander