Revised and ?ready for submission?

Please please please please read this carefully and critically... yeas, I know Nanna, you aren't happy doing that, but PLEASE! I am GOING to submit this soon (was already supposed to have done so) but I desperately want feedback first. So here it is, I know you guys have already seen it, but I feel it is somewhat improved. If there are any discrepencies or obvious errors that I missed please help me from making an ass of myself. Thanks!

(The format gets jacked when I CC&P from Word to here, sorry)

Sugar & Spice
Ashley Deen

I’d made my bed purely out of habit, even though it hurt and my bandaged hands were clumsy. They would strip away the linens and sanitize the room as soon as I was gone, but I had nothing else to do. They’d left me to pack, but all I had were the scrubs I was wearing and the broken pieces of my wedding ring. A nurse had showed me the denture box containing two small, silver crescents the day that I had woken up.
“They had to cut it off ‘cause the swelling was so bad, but it’s all right here.” She’d said, tilting the box toward me then putting it on the bedside table.
I stared at it now as I waited. I remembered the day you asked me to marry you. We’d gone and bought the rings that weekend, after you got paid. I remembered the day you slipped mine on my finger. The beeping of a monitor echoed from the next bed. I remembered…




The microwave beeped just as I heard your truck in the yard, the old engine sputtering to a stop, and my stomach tensed. It occurred to me that I hadn’t been this anxious since our first date. I pulled the spicy Mexican casserole from the oven and set it on the table just as I heard the front door open. The thump of your boots on the hardwood echoed the pounding of my heart. I needed tonight to be perfect.
“Where’s my Sugar?” You asked from the doorway, smiling and bracing your arms at the corners of the doorframe.
“Right here, Jess. I made all your favorites. There’s even fresh tortillas and a pitcher of Salty Dog.”
You moved into the kitchen and sat down, watching as I peeled and sliced a fresh tomato.
“How was your day?”
“Same old bullshit. Damn job foreman keep giving me hell, didn’t even care that my hands were all busted up. He wanted the ditches finished today so the electricians could get in there and lay their pipe. I asked him why in the hell those assholes weren’t digging their own damn ditches, and you know what that little piss ant said?”
“What did he say, baby?”
“He told me to ‘shut up and do my damn job’. That’s the problem, it ain’t my damn job! And that smart-assed electrician just about got his nose popped when he came over giving me shit. Old fart thinks he knows every damn thing.”
“Sounds like a real jerk.” I said as I brought over the tomatoes. I filled our glasses with tea and started to sit down.
“Christ Jesus, Randi, you look like shit. Can’t you do something with your face? I can’t eat looking at you like that.”
I stopped halfway to my seat, hands on the table. My smile froze and I struggled to pull it back into place. I turned to the fridge. “Sure Jess, I’ll just go freshen up. Won’t take a minute. Um, would you like a drink for right now?” I pulled a frosted mug from the freezer and waited, praying.
“Yeah, that’ll work. Hurry up though. Damn supper’s gonna get cold.” I poured your drink and left the pitcher on the table. As I hurried to the bathroom I heard you,
“And pull your damn hair back. You ain’t hiding nothing with that mop hanging in your face.”
I stared in the mirror, wondering just what in the hell you expected me to do with the mess you’d made. My father’s clever Irish eyes stared back at me, what I could see of them, reminding me that everything would be okay. I grabbed a brush and put my hair in a clip, then tried to smear on some makeup without bringing tears to my eyes. The cosmetics only made it worse, but I was out of time.
“Hurry up, damn it!” You shouted from the kitchen.
“Coming!” I said as I rushed back to the table. “Is that better?” I asked, knowing the answer.
You just grunted and finished off your drink. “That Dog was damn good, though. Get me another one will ya, and let’s eat. I’m bout to starve.” The pitcher, as well as the food, was right in front of you. I stood, filled your glass. I picked up your plate and made it for you.
“You want some sour cream? Salsa? Some Pico?” I asked, picking up the relish tray. You nodded and helped yourself while I held the tray like a servant. When you took a bite and seemed satisfied, I sat.
I picked at my food, moving it around on my plate and listening to you complain. About your job, your boss, other workers. I sipped my water and watched you drink. When you ran low, I refilled your glass. I listened as you began to slur. I nodded and agreed and poured. You missed your mouth with a bite of food and I watched it fall onto the table, the red sauce bleeding into the tablecloth. I watched your eyes cloud and your body sway. I watched your eyes roll back and your head loll to the side. I watched as your breathing slowed to a whisper.
I rose, looked down at you. I checked for your pulse and found it, thin and reedy. Then I gathered my thoughts and went to work.
I poured the last of the Salty Dog into the sink, watching the pretty pink poison splash down the drain. I knew part of my calmness was from the few sips I had taken trying to get the flavor right. I’d never taken any of the Xanax that Dr. Wilson had given me after I lost the baby, but I knew that they were supposed to make you calm. Unless you took all thirty of them with a pint of gin, a quart of grapefruit juice and a handful of salt to keep you thirsty. That would probably be a very bad idea. I giggled, then clamped a hand over my mouth, appalled at myself.
I pulled the old wheelchair out of the closet where it had been since you put your father in the nursing home. It was harder than I thought, getting you from one chair to the other. Twice you nearly slid right into the floor. For the first time it hit me that I might not be able to pull this off. Panic clawed at me. There wasn’t any going back now. I finally draped your arms over the handles and propped your feet into the steps. I wheeled you to the door and went to get the truck, bringing it as close to the porch as I possibly could. Getting you into the truck was even harder, and at one point I cried, your heavy body slumped against me, thinking that I would fail already.
“Oh hell no,” I growled into your neck. “You are not going to beat me now, you rotten- son- of a bitch!” I heaved with all my strength and then some, adrenaline raging through me finally. “Now get your ass in the damn truck!” I managed to sort of roll you in once I got your back up to seat level. I slammed the door, panting, and went back inside to grab my bag.
Coming back to the truck, not being able to see you from the windows, I had a crazed vision of opening the door and finding the cab empty, and you coming up behind me, all hell in your eyes for what I’d tried to do. I shook it off, made myself grab the handle, get in the truck with you.
Heading down the dark, dusty road, I wondered if this could possibly work. I’d probably wind up killing myself, and even if I didn’t the sheriff would see right through it and I would go to prison. All those times that you’d beaten, raped, and damn near killed me, and spent a night here, a week there in jail for it; now I’m probably going to rot in a cell for the rest of my life for you. That’s life, right? A tear burned its way down my face as I pulled onto the grass and stopped. Anything would be better that living with you.
I opened my door and started tugging you across the battered bench seat. It took awhile, but I finally got you propped up on the steering wheel. I grabbed you by the hair, raising your head to the seat and checking again for a pulse. They might buy you passing out and crashing, but not if it turned up you were dead before the wreck even happened. I looked at your face one last time. You looked so peaceful, so boyish, like the sweet-talking man I’d married. I slammed your head forward with both hands, ramming your forehead against the metal steering wheel. Blood flowed down your face and dripped to the floor in a steady patter. I shut the door and walked to the passenger side to climb back in. I took out the plastic Wal-Mart bag and opened the bottle of gin. I poured it over you and tossed the bottle at your feet. I balled up the bag and pushed it down behind the seat. I unsnapped your shirt pocket, took out your cigarettes and the Zippo I’d bought you for our first anniversary. I lit one and inhaled the smooth Marlboro smoke. I took another drag, remembering what you had told me when you’d made me quit.
‘You taste like an ashtray.’ I smiled and looked at you. “Well honey, you’re about to feel like one.” I leaned over and put the butt between your lips very carefully. Then I put your left foot on the brake pedal and slipped the Zippo into your shirt pocket. I braced myself, put your right foot on the gas pedal, and positioned my left foot above it. I was all but sitting on top of you and I pictured you suddenly waking up, grabbing my throat. The fear didn’t come, and I realized that one way or another, I’d already won.
I grabbed the gear stick, pressed on your left foot, put the truck in drive. I aimed the wheel and then slammed down on your right foot, tearing toward the woodline. I let go and put my head behind your back just as we hit, but the impact still jarred my whole body and I bit my tongue so hard that my mouth filled with blood, gagging me. My eyes teared, but I didn’t have time to think about it. I hadn’t been knocked out, and I might just get out of this alive. The cigarette had fallen from your mouth, but it hadn’t caught fire. It had rolled into the floorboard at your feet but apparently the gin there wasn’t enough. I bent and tried to grab it, stretching as far as I could. I finally touched it and managed to roll it toward me so that I could pick it up. I laid it on your lap and seconds later it caught. It spread faster than I had thought it would, rushing up your shirt and to your hair. The smell was awful and the heat was blistering. I placed my hands on your flaming leg, screaming but holding on, then yanked away to open the door and tumble out. I scrambled to my feet and ran for the woods, praying the truck wouldn’t explode with me in the ditch. It didn’t, hadn’t even when I was a quarter of a mile away, limping as fast as I could across the Hadley’s field. I tripped coming up their steps and screamed when my charred hands hit the wooden deck. I rolled onto my back, holding my hands up and away from my body. Gina Hadley ran out the front door and yelled for her husband when she saw me.
“Oh my God, it’s Miranda,” she told him as she knelt to help me up. “Just look at her. That boy ought to be whipped! Come on here, darling. Let’s get you inside.”
“Gina, call 911.” My throat was raw and my voice sounded like a stranger’s; some raspy actress from the Garbo days. “Jess wrecked the truck and I think he’s dead. There was fire everywhere. It hurts so much. Please call an ambulance.”
“Harlan, help me,” she turned to him, then jumped when the explosion finally came, like thunder even from that far. They stared at the flames dancing over the treetops. Finally Gina snapped out of it, “Damn Harlan, this girl needs help and that fire’s gonna burn right through to the hay field, dry as it’s been. Go call for help!” I heard his boots thumping on the wooden porch just as I passed out.


“Miss?” The nurse cleared her throat, bringing me back to the tiny room. “I have your discharge papers. If you’ll just sign these I’ll take you to the front.” She gestured to the wheelchair in front of her. The thought of sitting in it almost made me laugh. Almost. I managed to sign the papers she handed me and then sat in the chair. I looked at the denture box again and gestured to it.
“Could you throw that away for me?” I asked. “I don’t want it anymore.”