Story continued

Ok, it's been my fault we haven't had an update... I'll try to be quicker, but again, anyone can go ahead and grab it....

The Soon-to-Be Titled Story as it Stands

Bridget had three sisters, but you'd never know it by looking at her. She seemed a mess from afar, and when you zoomed in close, you could see the wheels were about to fly right off of that train. It was no fault of her own, however. She had been unceremoniously dropped right into the middle of things, her husband of three years deciding that what he needed more then a loving, committed relationship was an underage girl with an "ass that wouldn't quit" and a sports car that no matter how fast it was driven would never get him back to the youth he was now trying to emulate.

The middle of things was where she'd started, so she should have been comfortable enough in the position. Her entry into the world had occurred during the middle of her mother's pregnancy, rather than towards the more traditional end, causing no end of bother. She'd grown up right smack in the middle of Indiana, a midwestern girl in a middle-class family that had little enough time for its middle child. Her older sisters, twins of a flamboyantly similar nature, kept themselves to themselves, and her younger sister was too much of a tomboy to pal around with Bridget.

Her real trouble, it seemed, was with the number three.

Nothing good ever came of that number, and she resisted the urge to spit as she closed her eyes and saw it there, a giant number three seared deep in her unconcious. Her hatred had gone way past obsession and landed deep in disorder territory.

Last week, the women's group had thrown their annual barn dance and charity auction at the Miller farm in Stuartville. Mary had convinced her that she needed to take part in the bacholerette auction. A bachelorette auction! Who does these things anymore? And with her entry, wouldn't it be more of a yard sale - showing used goods going for a low price.

Still, she played the socialite role, put on a smiling face, and a dress that helped cover some of her softer exterior, and stood in line waiting her chance to strut the catwalk - a piece of cattle being eyed by the eyes of fat, disgusting butchers.

As she waited, Nan came over, that smile of hers trying to cover the vacancy that existed behind her eyes. As she whispered some cooing remarks about how radiant Bridget looked, she pinned a number to the front of her dress.

That number was three.

She looked around quickly, her eyes scanning the room for the nearest exit. Palms sweaty, the scarlet "three" burned on her chest like a brand, Bridget sidled over to the drinks table. Damn midwestern values, she thought as she picked up her plastic cup of warm kool-aid. Somebody could have at least sprung for a keg, anything to help ease the anxiety that was building as she pictured her upcoming turn on the catwalk.

There is no escape from Stuartville, Bridget thought. Every person in the room had known her since she was born, probably knew that story, too, and would certainly notice if she was absent from the auction. Her eyes lit on a huddled group of the town's finest boys in blue. Just great. The last thing she needed tonight was to run into Carl.

Carl was the typical mid-western stud, with the usual resume. High School quarterback, voted all American, Blond-hair, blue eyes, chiseled physique. Father's wished he was their boy, and Mother's wished they were 20 years younger. And, to Bridget, one giant asshole.

She was sure he'd be out there with his pals, slapping each other on the back, and blatently drinking cans of some sludge that they tried to pass off as alcohol. Even though they'd all be in uniform, there was no one who would put think that there was anything illegal in their actions. These were the boys in blue and in this town, they weren't just the law, they were above it. Lesser dieties who blessed the town by walking the streets.