Farenheit Extension: Mrs. Phelps

Mrs. Phelps

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world...

   Mrs. Phelps sniffled and rubbed the back of her hand under her nose. Naked shingles. Of all the- it was simply preposterous -unprecedented -it-it-it- made her head spin.
   She needed to go back to her house, where her family waited for her next to a bottle of sleeping pills. Void of Pete, any children, and nasty firemen spouting out poisonous words instead of toxic flames. Yes, that's exactly what she needed to do. 
   Shakily, she pulled out the keys to her beetle. Poor Mildred. Her dear friend left alone with a delusional man and a book. Not alone, she corrected herself, she still had her family.
   But what help would they been against Montag and his dangerous words...
   Stop it! A whimper escaped her lips. That poem had left her shaken that was for sure, yet what part  had gotten to her, she didn't know. All she knew was that it had left her feeling, feeling what? Not her usual empty, but a hollowed abandonness that carved away at her from the inside. It clawed and chipped away and filled her with more hopelessness. And she didn't like it.
   "Silly words, silly words, silly awful hurting words," Mrs. Bowles murmured as she passed by Mrs. Phelps, seeming not to notice her.
   Mrs. Phelps in turn, seemed oblivious to Mrs. Bowles, all her attention on unlocking her beetle, until the other woman spun back around, facing the house and cried out, "Silly words! Silly, silly, silly, silly!" Then to herself mumbled, "Silly awful hurting words," and climbed into her beetle and slammed the door.
   Mrs. Phelps released a breath.
   "I'm calling the fire department!"
   She jumped, startled by Mrs. Bowles outburst, and dropped her keys. What good would it do to call the fire department, she mused as Mrs. Bowles sped off. If Montag was anything to go by, they'd be just as likely to spew rhymes as they would flames.

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light...

   Stepping into her beetle, she felt despair. Despair and hopelessness. She had a name for what that wretched poem had made her feel but still no way to make it vanish. And that in turn only fed the hopelessness.

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain...    

   Why? Why couldn't she make the feelings go away? Tearing down the road with her foot heavy on the pedal, she raced to leave her emotions behind.
  It wasn't working. She couldn't escape. She had never felt more confused, more trapped. Not in her first, second, or third marriage. Not with her family, chatting and sipping orange drinks in her sitting room. Not even while Montag stood in the doorway, reading aloud about those stupid naked shingles.
   How desperately she wished to go back in time, to not show up at Mildred's, to simply sleep through the evening and possibly the next few days.

And we are here on a darkling plain...  

   Pete. He drifted into her mind like a leaf on the wind, provoking feelings of nothing. She did not miss him nor did she long for his comfort. Was it wrong? If so what else was wrong with her? Did that mean there was something wrong with her family?
   How she hated all this worrying. Worrying was Pete's job. She pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. Pete. Her third husband. They had an agreement to be independent. If he were be killed off she was to move right along and marry again, forget about him and shed no tears. But she needn't worry.
   More people died from suicide than war anyways.

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

She just wanted to feel nothing again.