So, if you're an Instagram follower of mine, you might remember me asking for your votes on a short story I entered into a competition a while back. I did end up getting a publishing contract for it, but unfortunately I had to turn it down... So I thought why not post the story on here? Please read and enjoy, I called it "Ignorance Is Bliss."
The woman strides into the utility, all confidence and determination, a pencil slung into the messy blonde bun which precariously teeters on her head. With analytical blue eyes, she scans the man and chews on her lip thoughtfully. One of the best mugs from the glass cabinet is clenched in her hand, full of scalding hot tea. The man stands crouched at the big white box, and he's been here for a while. I don't like him. "Any progress?" the woman says, breaking a tense silence. He looks up from his work and smiles a cat-like smile when he accepts the cup of tea. "Well, I was right, your water heater is the problem, and I guess it just took a while to manifest. Usually, nine times out of ten, it’s the water heater and a pretty easy fix, but this thing is pretty totalled, honestly." "Seriously?" she says. He nods, looking grave "Yep, the guys who owned this place before were clearly not the technical type." The woman scoffs "Well, ignorance is bliss." "I guess so." The conversation suitably finished with, she leaves him to his work and walks across the hall into the living room, and sits in the chair next to Grandma's.
Grandma always sits in the living room, content with her knitting and records. The woman does not like it when I play Grandma's records. If I turn on the record player, the woman freezes and looks at me with wide eyes, and then runs to pull out the plug.
The woman in my house does not like me; Grandma says she is a woman who does not like what she cannot understand. "She likes logical people", Grandma said, "and unfortunately, my lamb, you are not a logical person."
I am still stood in the utility room. The man takes a sip of his tea with the teaspoon still in the dark, golden liquid, and carefully places it on the table in front of me. I do not like the man. I do not like him near me. He shivers and then continues working on the big white box, throwing anxious glances over his shoulder. Grandma says that people are ignorant of what they don't want to believe, and that even we were once too. She says that is why they are sometimes afraid. After all, ignorance is bliss. Grandma tells me off sometimes when I try to play, so before I do, I check on her. She is sitting in her chair, happy to rock back and forth and knit the days away. I like playing with the people, and Grandma isn't paying attention. The teaspoon clinks and clanks against china as I stir the cup. The man freezes. He stares at the floor. He slowly rotates his head to see the source of the noise. I drop the spoon back in the cup and he jumps. I smooth down my white nightgown and pull my fingers through my knotted chocolate pigtails as he approaches. Mama used to tell me that I had her golden skin. But now its pale as moonlight and big red sores mark it. I don't think they will ever go away. But, then again, I didn't think Mama would ever go away either. The man has his eyes fixed on the teacup, not even bothering to look my way. I can feel him resisting, not letting himself believe. I try not to, but all of a sudden it is so ridiculous, so silly that he won't let himself see me, that I laugh. And that, that grabs his attention. That makes him believe. The man shakes his head, his hands shake in the way that the woman's do whenever I play with the record player or the crayons. And because it would destroy his blissful life, he leaves, as ignorant as the rest of them. The rest who cannot let themselves believe. The front door slams shut behind him, and from the window, I can see him fumble with his keys, struggling to pick the right one to unlock his van. His tools are still here, in the kitchen. The woman goes to talk to him. She demands an answer. He climbs into his vehicle and lets down the window as he turns to face her, about to speak- It's then that he sees me, standing in the window, waving slowly with a knowing smile. His knuckles turn white on the steering wheel, and without sparing a glance back at the woman, he speeds down the drive.
Neither I, Grandma nor the woman ever see the man again.
