Ephemeral Lifetime

>that feel

2011-12-02T18:33:00.000-08:00

Have you ever lost anyone? Like, anyone close? I don't mean a grandparent or a great aunt or uncle, as tragic as that is, I mean someone your own age, someone you choose to affiliated with.
I have. Her name was April. Ironically, she died in April. I heard later that her mum was blaming herself, by tempting fate with that name.
Me and April were best friends from when we were about two years old. We'd see each other every day, she lived next door to me. Sylvanian Family's, Barbie's Furbies, Pokémon- we did it all. Together.

And, as kids are want to do, we grew up. Boys, make-up, clothes, fashions- all this we discovered together too. Side by side, through every school. And we were happy. We told each other everything. Every mood. every arguments with our parents. every boy woe, or joy. Every last detail of our lives was immediately repeated to the other.

Which was why I was so surprised when she killed herself.

If she had gotten sick, or into an accident, maybe I would have come to terms with it faster. Maybe I wouldn't feel this rage inside me. Have you ever experienced this? Where it feels like your insides are boiling and fizzing and hissing, you want to scream and roar and smash everything you own? Where you feel so utterly betrayed, you can actually feel the knife sticking out of your back and the blood trickling down your spine? Where someone you loved, you thought unconditionally, turns so swiftly into someone you hate with a fiery vengeance you just can't seem to get over? Your head gets so full of thoughts and feelings, emotions and tirades but you can't express any of them.

Because after all, someone has just died.

Your best friend.

I just don't understand why she didn't tell me what was wrong.

The Pack

2010-07-27T17:25:00.003-07:00

They’re coming for me. I can hear them outside, their soft paws padding on the coarse dirt and gravel, their fetid breath panting gently. They’re in no rush. I’m not going anywhere.
It started just a few weeks ago. I was out walking the hills, admiring the lakes that this district is named for. It began to get dark and I turned for home, knowing these hills so well as to not panic. As I turned, I saw a strange shadow flitting across a flat piece of land near a small body of water in the valley below. I watched as more joined it until finally there was a group of them near the water’s edge. Curiosity made me stand there and watch, I was trying to figure out what they were. They seemed too large to be ordinary dogs, but wolves no longer prowled these lands. I shifted slightly from one foot to another, sending a few small stones scuttling. As one, the pack of whatever they are turned and gazed up at me. Their eyes glowed varying shades of orange and red, that much I could tell even from the distance I was at (which was quite a way). I started walking slowly and gently backwards down the path, my eyes not leaving The Pack. They didn’t move as they watched me go. I soon came to a corner and had to turn, taking them out of my sight, and I jogged back to my cottage listening for sounds of pursuit but hearing none.
I went back the next night to see if I could see them, and there they were. Gathered once more at the waters edge, taking it in turns to drink, they for the world seemed peaceful creatures. I sat on a grassy bank at the top of the hill and watched them a while until one by one they started peeling away and disappearing into a connecting valley. As I watched the last one trot away, I became aware of a soft padding sound behind me, a quiet breathing coming closer. I stood slowly and turned to find The Pack gathering near me at the top of the hill. I stared as they made a formation and starting padding towards me, I saw again the orangey-redness of their eyes. They came ever closer- without a conscious thought to do so I turned and fled, running as fast as my legs could carry me down the hillside towards my home. They gave chase and I could hear them panting, their footfalls still light, I could almost smell their breath and feel it on my neck.
With relief I saw my cabin come into view and didn’t hesitate as I ran to the door, unlocked in these lonely hills, and slammed it shut behind me. I peered out of the adjacent window and saw The Pack had stopped a distance away, regarding the cottage curiously. They stayed there peacefully awhile before one by one turning and trotting amiably away, not ill intent (other than the lengthy chase) seemingly meant.
I didn’t return to their clearing after that, but every few nights since I have heard them in the bracken at the edge of the clearing my cottage sits in. Sometimes, if I am very sneaky in looking at the window, I will see one that has braved coming forward and it seems to me with every visiting there are more becoming braver. It’s gotten to the stage where the majority of The Pack are comfortable with circling the intimate proximity of these thin walls. As sneaky as I am it is me that has lost bravery, I no longer want to creep over to the windows to see them. I don’t need to, them being so audible, but it’s also out of fear of their wrath- though there has been no evidence of it.

Stomach Pains, Two Stories

2010-07-13T15:54:00.000-07:00

----

Spasm. Screams.

Somewhere near me a voice is whispering. Ignore them. Crazy people.

Spasm. Agony.

All positivity gone. Something in my hand. Tension. Squeeze. Relieves pain, barely.

Spasm. Rip. Tears. More screams.

Blood. Everywhere. My arms, my legs, the bed, the wall.

Spasm. Spasm. Spasm. Scream.

Someone covers my face with a mask. Trying to drug me. Rip it off and throw it away.

Spasm. Big one. Roar of pain.

"Congratulations. It's a boy."

Blackout.

----

Another wave of pain rolls through me like a knife spearing my insides.

It comes and goes, this agony, sometimes leaving me for hours on end. Sometimes leaving me mere minutes. It stabs at me, buckling my knees and crumpling my face. Along with the pain comes a deep, consuming blackness.

It started mildly at first, a vague twinge somewhere in my abdomen. Over the course of weeks and months the pain grew. Doctors could do nothing, some even suggested that the pain was not in my abdomen but in my mind- that I was making it up. They were wrong.

I don't care if the scans showed nothing. The tests showed nothing. I can feel it inside me waiting and when the pain comes sometimes, well, all the time now- I can see it. It started out far away, a pin prick in the darkness but it's coming closer. With each wave it approaches, like flotsam to the shore. I can't truly describe what it is, I don't see it for very long each time. It's like a flash. A brief horror before my vision returns to normal and the pain subsides.

Another wave and I collapse to the floor. It doesn't recede as fast as normal and the vision lingers. Horror. Agony. It seems clichéd to call it demonic. A tsunami of pain washes over me and I know that soon the pain will be the norm and my life will be the fleeting waves.

Paranoid.

2010-04-15T16:51:00.000-07:00

How do you know you're safe?

I know you have rituals that make you feel safe. You lock your door securely, you close your windows. You keep valuables out of view and you don’t go wandering off to your neighbour’s place without making sure everything is done up good and tight.

That doesn’t mean you know though.

You hear stories, of people dropping their book on the floor ready to go to sleep, leaning over to turn out the lamp and seeing the book sliding under the bed. Of people who feel ill at ease, feel as if someone is outside their bedroom door. They don’t hear anything, they just feel it. One or two times they give into paranoia and check- one or two times they’re right.

That raises the quintessentially key point. Paranoia. Is paranoia just a fantastic whim on your imagination’s part, or a warning sign from your subconscious? They say we only use ten percent of our brains- what if that wasn’t always the case? Our lives today leave us in no real, constant danger, we have no reason to suspect something lurking to hurt us as we once did.

Maybe people who “suffer” from paranoia are the lucky ones. Maybe they’ve tapped into this long forgotten instinct. Maybe the rest of us are the real sufferers.

All I know is, the only way to make myself free from paranoia is to be the one giving you reason to feel paranoid.

Zombie Flu News Report

2010-03-17T05:47:00.000-07:00

The new strain of Swine Flu, H1Z1, has confirmed cases in the cities of Birmingham, Manchester and Edinburgh. There have been some unconfirmed outbreaks in surrounding districts.

This new strain of Flu, “Zombie Flu” as it has been labelled, is said to affect those with strong immune systems more than those with weak immune systems. This is because it “hijacks” the body’s own defences in order to reproduce. The more immune cells in the body, the more times the virus can replicate itself.

Symptoms of this new strain include head ache, fever, nausea/vomiting and shakes. These last around 24 hours before the victim seemingly passes away. Within two hours of death the virus will have reproduced enough in order to restart the heart, effectively “bringing the body back to life.” Because the brain has been starved of oxygen for at least an hour, all humanity is stripped and the victim reverts to primal instincts. Though usually manifested in violence and self defence, this is also taken to include: gross over-eating, sexual desire and grooming.

This virus is not yet airborne and is passed from skin to skin contact. A vaccine is as yet unavailable and scientists believe “Tamiflu”, an anti-viral drug quite affective against ordinary strains of flu, makes no impact. The government urges people to remain indoors or, at least, wear a face mask and use alcohol hand gel at all times.

One More

2010-03-17T05:43:00.001-07:00

I heard it first the night of my 18th birthday, and have heard it every night since. A whirring, electronic sound, high pitched, burning my ears. Nothing I do can stop me hearing it, nothing changes it’s pitch, or volume. Even holding a pillow over my ears does nothing. Like a ringing in the ears after a loud concert, it stays.

Then, as if to add to my torment, on the night of my 19th birthday, I saw it. Or rather, I didn’t see. I was blinded by a bright light. From the minute my head touched the pillow, to the break of dawn, my room would be filled with light. I tried covering my face with a pillow but it did not work. The light stayed the same.

Needless to say, I rarely slept. I was permanently exhausted, and moody. Friends started to drift away, some even mumbling about drugs if I tried to explain myself. I moved out of my parent’s house, hoping that the noise and light wouldn’t follow me. But they did.

It was on the night of my 20th birthday that things came to a breaking point. The noise started, the light started and then I felt them. Cold, rough hands probing my body, nowhere went untouched. I tried to sit up and fight them off but I couldn’t. I felt pinpricks as I was injected, or they took blood, or both I’m not sure. I felt the scrape as the scratched off skin cells, and heard the snips as hair was cut off for examination.

On the morning after my 20th birthday, when dawn had broken, I could finally move. I sat up and examined myself. Everything was pretty much the same as always, except for a patch of dry skin on my upper left arm, that seemed cold to the touch.

On the night of my 21st birthday, the noise didn’t come. The light didn’t come. The hands didn’t come. After three years of suffering, they finally came. I looked like them now, my skin dry and rough and cold to the touch. My hair had fallen out, and for that I was glad, the contact caused my scalp to itch. I ceased to wear clothes when I ceased to look female, to look human. Just an asexual figure.

A different light shone into my room, that night. It was soft, and inviting. The life I lead now is an interesting one. We spend three years at a time harvesting particular specimens, and they already have thousands here. We rid them of humanity of the mind, then rid them of humanity of the body. I’m not sure why we do this, no one has told me, but there is a growing tension within everyone. We have received coded messages from others, like ourselves, messages I don’t understand. They seem to spark excitement within the leaders.

If you hear a noise on the night of your 18th birthday, my advice to you would to you would be to go to your government, and tell them my tale. I tell you this, because I remember my human life, and part of me misses it. I tell you this because I got a message today, from one of the leaders. He simply said,

“One more.”

This New World

2010-03-17T05:41:00.001-07:00

It began in the Philippines. Only a few here knew about it at first, myself being one of them. As an amateur virologist the subject was, naturally, of interest. When I heard of the first cases in France and Germany, from imported pigs, I was mildly alarmed. But I figured the Governments of Europe would be wise, a cull, a quarantine- everything would be fine and go back to normal. But, of course, that would be the logical thing to do. The first case in the UK was on a pig farm in East Anglia. At first it was just a sickness, like a lung infection. It spread quickly. But then the disease began to change, people began choking on blood as it flooded their lungs and stomach. Blood began to trickle from every orifice. The government finally began to put restrictions in place, all public areas closed, people to stay in their houses. But it was far too late for that. The disease was airborne and survived a long time in it too. It spread in all directions. French radio told us that the country was pretty much decimated, before finally turning to static. The government tried to minimise panic by promising to deliver food and water. After the initial incidents where people didn’t listen, rioted and ended up being shot, everyone listened and stayed in doors. The majority of them didn’t make it for the delivery, if it was ever going to come.

I have never heard so much silence. Sure, the birds kept singing and there was a cacophony of dogs trapped in houses barking, but the lack of human generated noise… cars, buses, music, voices. It was heart breaking.

After spending a few days mourning my losses and releasing the pets trapped in the nearest houses, I began to travel. I started out in my own car but soon swapped to something faster. I sped down the motorway, leaving the city behind, not stopping to look at the fires, the motionless cars, the still that had descended on this Great country. I reached the sea by dusk and sat on the cliff edge, watching the sun set on this new world.

Some Scary Stories... ooOOooo

2010-03-17T05:38:00.001-07:00

Headphones

Everyone does it at some point. It’s natural- right? You can’t be bothered to mingle with great unwashed masses that congregate at the pub, you just want to sit quietly, mug of something warm nearby, headphones on, listening to your favourite tunes. If you’re like me, you’ll turn it up really loud to block the outside noise, barking, sirens- no one wants to relax listening to those do they?

But then there’s always that feeling isn’t there? A twitchy feeling on your spine, do you hear something coming from the other room? Nah, your family are away visiting relatives and you definitely remember locking the doors. Still.. There’s always that feeling that someone else is in the house.

Let me tell you now, there is not. Now let me tell you something you may not already know- they watch you. They wait. They visit you in that time when you are completely disconnected from reality, in your own land. At first, when they try to touch through, we sense it and it wakes us up from whatever state we’d gotten ourselves into. But then, as we get older, our senses weaken. When they touch through, we don’t bother with it much any more. That’s how they like it.

Computer Screen

I can see you.

I am staring at you right now.

Don’t you see me smiling?

You’re looking straight at me.

You have for so long.

I think I’m in love with you.

Your face is so captivating, watching you laugh, cry, smile at me.

Except you’re not smiling at me are you?

You don’t even know I’m here.

But that’s ok, I can wait.

This glass can’t last forever.

Hinata

2010-03-01T08:11:00.000-08:00

This story I wrote a very, very long time ago.

I panted and stared. The knife was red, dripping, hovering over my love. He lay, his beautiful face hidden in the thick, warm carpet. A fire roared across the room from us, its hellish light reflected in the knife’s polished edge. He leaned closer, walking towards me, an evil grin on his face, a manic look in his eye. I felt a searing pain then, blackout.

~~~

I woke with a start. There was an empty, cold space in the bed beside me. I got up and walked out of the patio doors, finding Haru smoking a cigarette.

“Hey stranger, why you up so early?” I asked him, smiling.

“Thinking.” He muttered, tense, a frown on his face. “Do you remember when we were kids?”

My smile broadened in surprise. “Of course! How could I forget, gummy bears on the swings, the lake-“

“Exactly, the lake. You remember all the swimming and stuff we did?”

“Yes…why? Feeling nostalgic are we?” I padded over to him and wrapped my arms round his waist.

“A bit, it’s just…” he paused a second, thinking. “I think we should go stay there a while. Take a tent and stuff; take some cans, just like when we were kids, y’know?”

“Yeah ok, that sounds fun.” I walked back to bed, slightly concerned, but soon fell fast asleep.

~~~

Less then forty eight hours later, we were there. The tent was set and we were swimming. It was just like when we were children, and Haru had finally relaxed.

I splashed water in his direction, and he retaliated by ducking under and pulling my legs.

I gasped, choking back the cool water as it filled my nose and mouth. I felt arms around me holding me by the surface, opened my eyes to see Haru’s beautiful green eyes beseeching mine for forgiveness. I kissed him swiftly, before swimming away towards the other side of the lake.

He gave chase, and we raced and raced, into unknown waters we hadn’t entered before. We swam further and further away from the safe, shaded area that filled our childhood, and further towards the dense trees on the other side.

We stopped by the bank, holding onto the thin grassy verge, to hold us afloat while we caught our breath. The forest ahead of us looked wild, untamed, and to a pair of wildfires like us, oh so inviting.

“Hey, Hinata, want to come back and explore this place later?”

He’d read my mind.

~~~

Later that day, about an hour before high noon, we clumsily swam across the lake, only with shorts and t-shirts on and walking boots around our necks. A few times across the way I had to stop to get my breath and Haru held me.

We reached the other side, and heaved ourselves out of the water. We slipped into our soggy, uncomfortable shoes and squeezed through the dense outer rim of bushes.

We found a surprisingly well trodden footpath. We followed it, it took us on a merry dance, twisting, turning and leading us astray.

We walked for a couple of hours, until we decided to sit and rest. The forest was cool, quiet, eerie. I started to feel a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. I felt eyes on my, heard a crack behind us, then a gloved hand covered my mouth to stifle my scream.

~~~

I woke much later, and it was dark out. My bleary eyes gazed around the room, and a painful, throbbing sensation filled my head.

I heard a noise from a far corner, and saw a door opening. A strange man entered, carrying two bowls. I began to whimper with the sheer fear that came over me.

“Sh, shh, it’s ok, my name is Katashi, I’m here to help you.”

He knelt down beside me and placed the two bowls by his knees. One bowl contained hot water and clean cloths, the other a sort of soup or broth.

I eyed the bowls wearily, whilst he carefully picked out a cloth, wrung it, and reached for my forehead. I flinched away, but he placed a soft, warm hand on my chin, holding my head still.

“I need to clean your head…hold still now.”

I began whimpering again as he peeled the sticky hair out of the gash on my forehead, and tears spilled down my bloody, smudged cheeks.

“Where am I?” I whispered, my throat parched and dry.

“You are in Aoi’s cabin, he captured you and your boyfriend. I was captured once too, but I gained his trust, now I work for him. He feeds me, waters me and doesn’t….”

He broke off, not wanting to finish.

“Doesn’t what?” I said, feeling braver in his presence.

“Never mind. I have to go. Drink your soup, I’ll come by and see you later.”

~~~

And he did come by and see me. Several times a day, and I was there for weeks. I wasn’t allowed to see Haru, but Katashi told me he was fine.

Me and Katashi got along well, and were interested in similar things. We had similar sense of humour. I found myself less and less longing for Haru, and more waiting and waiting for Katashi to arrive, either with more water or soup, and an amusing titbit or anecdote.

One day, about a month after I was first taken, Katashi came in, looking pale and drawn. I knew something was wrong. I gazed at him enquiringly.

He knelt down next to me and took my hands in his.

“I have to get you out of here,” he whispered. “Aoi has gone mad. I don’t know what’s wrong, he’s on a rampage. He’s already killed all his pets, I’m taking you away from here, into the woods. Here.” He took off his shirt, revealing a toned upper body, and shoved it into my hands.

“Put this on, and he won’t notice you very well. Just stay close to me and we’ll make it out.”

I was terrified, but hurriedly did as he bid me, and followed him out of my cell. I heard a sorrowful howling from somewhere nearby. I grasped at Katashi’s hand, seeking it’s warmth.

We made it to the front door, and calmly walked to the edge of the woods. Then we began to run.

~~~

We ran for what seemed like years, and by the time we stopped I was panting like a dog on a summer’s day. Katashi’s back glistened with sweat. Then I realised something.

“We’ve forgotten Haru!”

He turned to me and took my hands in his.

“It’s too late for Haru. I didn’t want to tell you back there, lest you go look for his body. He was the reason I came to get you. When I saw what happened to him, I dreaded to think what Aoi would do to you.”

He hung his head, and a solitary tear slid down his cheek.

“I wanted to help him. Honest I did. But I need to get you, to save you. If I’d have interfered, we would all be dead.”

I reached up, and kissed his tear away.

“That was a very brave thing to do.”

We stayed together in the woods like that for a few days. I mourned for Haru, but not as much as a good girlfriend should have, as he had already been missing from me for so long. Katashi was delicate towards me. HE treated me kindly, and gave me the sweetest, most succulent fruits he gathered.

One morning, he turned to me and smiled. I asked him what he was so happy about.

“You just laughed at that squirrel being nearly pushed off a tree!” he exclaimed.

“And?” I inquired.

“And,” he said, “it was the most beautiful sound, because I haven’t heard it in days.”

I smiled at him and walked over to him.

Suddenly my back was against the forest floor and he was kissing me. A stone dug into my back, but I didn’t care. I needed this, I needed this embrace, I longed for it. We moved together, and I fell into oblivion.

~~~

We lived in this manner for around two weeks.

One night, when the moon was full and high, I woke with a start to the sound of voices.

I rolled over, and peeped through slitted eyes towards the other side of our clearing. I saw Katashi and another man deep in conversation. I was about to get up and ask what was going on, but then saw the other man looking towards me.

I decided to listen carefully.

“….bring her to you tomorrow. She will come, she trusts me.”

“And what of her assets? Presentable?”
“Oh, hahaa, oh yes. Very.” I heard something in Katashi’s voice, something I’d never heard before. It chilled me to the core.

~~~

The next morning I woke to find Katashi smiling down at me.

“We’re setting up camp somewhere else today kiddo, give this place chance to repair.”

I gazed up at him wearily, then nodded. I would go with it for now then go through with my own plan.

We walked for about two hours, before coming to a stop. Katashi directed himself behind me, and pointed ahead, to a wren on the forest floor ahead.

He clamped a hand over my mouth.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered into my neck. He kissed my neck discretely, before shoving me along a side path, towards a familiar cabin.

We barged into what I assumed to be the living room, I assumed because I’d never seen it before.

A large, muscular man was in an armchair. He smiled when he saw us.

“Ahh yes, young Hinata and slightly older Katashi. How lovely. Do sit.”

I waited for Katashi to sit, before taking my sit, the furthest one away as possible.

Aoi leant over and whispered in Katashi’s ear. He turned pale, but smiled cruelly and nodded. He got up and walked towards me.

“Listen carefully, we have to get out of here. He wants us to have sex in front of him. I’m so sorry. It’s that or death.” He whispered this in my ear.

“I’d rather die.” I spat back at him. He pleaded at me with his eyes, and I relented, keeping my plan in mind.

Aoi insisted we use the coach whilst he watched from across the room.
A few minutes in I put the plan in motion.

I slipped my hands around Katashi’s neck, and began to squeeze.

“Die,” I whispered again and again. “Die!”

Katashi put up a fight for a while, then suddenly lay still. I clambered off him. I turned around to find Aoi right behind me. He grabbed me by the throat and dragged me to another room. He pushed me in and I tripped over something soft. I turned and look and saw Haru. He was breathing!

I knelt and clasped at him, holding him, and got a hard kick in the side for my troubles. I fell away, gasping for breath.

Aoi stood over us, an evil leer on his face.

He knelt next to Haru’s unconscious body. Quick as a flash he had a knife in his hand, plunge, plunge, one, two. Blood splattered his crisp, white shirt.

I panted and stared. The knife was red, dripping, hovering over my love. He lay, his beautiful face hidden in the thick, warm carpet. A fire roared across the room from us, its hellish light reflected in the knife’s polished edge. He leaned closer, walking towards me, an evil grin on his face, a manic look in his eye. I felt a searing pain then, blackout.

One year later

I walked through the park pushing a pram. Baby Haru was wriggling and whining, the big, healthy, bouncing baby. He was around three months old, and conceived during the two weeks leading up to Haru the elders death.

He was Katashi’s child.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned and smiled up into Katashi’s face. He bent down to kiss me, then baby Haru.

There are a few things that happen, that always result in both parties falling in love.

One of them is saving the girl of your dreams’ life repeatedly, then committing murder to save her again. The jury let him off on the grounds that Aoi was about to kill me.

We meandered through the park together, and Katashi lit up a cigarette.

He...

2010-03-01T08:10:00.000-08:00

He had a kind of poetic symmetry. He was loud, funny and popular, around other people. He was quiet, sweet and shy, around me. He never pretended anything, everything he did and said was completely true to who he was. And he balanced me out. When I got too paranoid, too insecure, instead of feeding it he'd tell me to shut up. He loved me. There was no need for my doubts.

Sounds kind of harsh doesn't it? But it's what I needed. He was what I needed.

It was even better when I wasn't feeling down. When I was happy and he was happy, which over time got more and more frequent, it was like we'd died and gone to heaven, except it was nowhere near as cheesy as I imagine heaven to be. We would laugh and kiss and joke and fool around and just be completely comfortable with each other. He was like an extension of myself.

He got on well with my family too, when he came over. He would talk technology with my dad, charm my mother with stories of his past, give my older sister advice and chase my younger till she was flushed red. Every one of them loved him to bits and completely and whole heartedly approved of my choice.

His hand fit mine perfectly, as did his arm around my shoulder, his forehead rested on mine, his lips connected to my own.

At first, he was just paler than normal. But it was England in the Winter, paleness was not unusual. The bags under his eyes were slightly, but he did say he hadn't been sleeping well recently.
When he started coughing, we just thought it was the Winter coughing bug. Everyone had it during winter. Nothing to worry about.
As the weeks of coughing turned into months, as he started to feel ill, he went to the doctor who said he had a chest infection. He prescribed anti-biotics and steroids and told him to come back in a few weeks.
I first began to properly worry when he stopped telling me to shut up, when he stopped making those jokes that most girls would hate but that I adored. He went back to the doctors who told him to keep on with the anti-biotics.
The months passed on and on and his cough didn't clear.
He was at my house and we were lying on my bed, his arm around my shoulders, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. He sat up suddenly, a hacking cough shaking his whole body and the bed. I rubbed his back soothingly, but then watched in dismay as red splattered the duvet. He stopped coughing and looked up at me, eyes filled with fear as I tried to hide my own. He went back to the doctors, but we both already knew it was too late.
It didn't take long for him to deteriorate.
He was soon in hospital. I had taken to sleeping in a fold out bed beside him, a place usually reserved for mothers but that she had graciously handed over to me.
They did what they could, pumping drugs into his body but nothing worked. He was too far gone.
When he began to have difficulty breathing, they moved him to the hospice. I moved with him.
When he began to have difficulty staying a awake, I took to sleeping in his bed beside him just to be closer for that fraction longer.
I held his hand as he quietly slipped away one night. It was 3:41 am. His last words were spoken to me. He said "shut up".
The days after he died were the worst days of my life. At first I sobbed for hours and hours on end. But, when the tears had all dried up, I just did nothing. I lived on autopilot. I think that's what concerned them most.
On the morning of his funeral I rose early. I curled my hair because he had always loved it curly. I was the first one to the church and the last one to leave the graveside. It shames me to say that I did not shed one tear during the service. People tried to comfort me, holding my hand or shoulder, pulling me into an embrace but I didn't respond, my muscles limp. After they had all gone I had a quiet word with him. I told him that I loved him at first, keeping my voice soft and low. But before I could help it I was shouting, screaming, at him for his betrayal. How dare he leave me this way. The tears still wouldn't return.
The morning after I recieved a letter.
The address was written in his barely elligible scrawl.
The letter told me how much he loved me. It said how much it meant to him that I had stayed with him through this. He hoped I would get this before he died, but after was ok too. He included the engraved bracelet I gave him the previous christmas. He asked me to not forget him, but told me to move on. He said I was beautiful and I deserved to live the rest of my life as I would have, even if he wasn't in it. He told me to shut up.
I keep that letter in my top drawer and read it whenever I get sad.
It's been five long, hard years.
His son just celebrated his fifth birthday a month ago.
I gave him his Daddy's bracelet, far too big for him now, but told him it was something for him to grow into.

Valentine's Day

2010-03-01T08:08:00.000-08:00

Walking along the street, everything seems fine. I’m alone, again, but that’s OK. I’m used to being alone, by now, embrace it even. I tell myself the quiet gives me space to fill my head with the fantasies I love so much. I tell myself I could never be so imaginative with someone else with me.
In one of my fantasies, I don’t notice the stranger walking straight towards me. In one of his fantasies, he does not notice me. We collide in the middle of the busy street. No coffee is cutely spilled, but an ankle is twisted. He offers to drive me to the hospital and I accept. The drive is a long one, it’s a Saturday and the roads are filled with milling traffic. We eventually reach it and he stays with me while I am treated and drives me home again afterwards.
As the standard cliché demands, we exchange phone numbers. He comes to my house to help me handle the chores I couldn’t do alone, being hardly able to walk. We swiftly become close and, when my ankle heals weeks later, he begins to take me out on dates. Picnics, cinema, ice skating, Italian restaurants. Before long we settle once again into a more casual routine. Officially a couple now, we’re able to spend days together simply. A Sunday waking up late, going for a roast at the local pub, returning to newspapers and Sunday evening television.
There is still romance, though. A rose left by the bathroom sink as a surprise for when he is gone, a simple text while he is at the office to brighten his day.
Weeks turn into months, months add into a year since the fateful day on the busy street. He surprises me by taking me to a nice meal at one of my favourite Chinese restaurants. After we have finished our main course and before the dessert, he gently says my name. Casually and suspiciously, he slides a red velvet box over the table towards me, like a spy handing over secret information. I take the box from his warm hand with a nervous smile. Upon opening I am first struck by the beauty of the ring- a cluster of small stones on white gold, simple, elegant, then notice the words printed inside the roof of the box.
“Marry me?”
A smile stretches my face as I look into his eyes. He is waiting nervously for my answer, his lip near shredded. I nod discretely and kiss his hand. The exchange, in rebellion to convention, mostly unnoticed by the surrounding diners.
Sixteen months later we’re wed in a small church service with only the closest friends and family. Wearing a simple white gown, I feel like the princess I should. We hold a larger party afterwards for more of our general friends, acquaintances and people from work.
The marriage is a rare gem. It lasts, unlike so many these days, produces two well mannered and successful children and five grandchildren the same. Living in the same house we have since our wedding day, we entertain family and friends who visit regularly. We’re old now and his warm hands are stiff with arthritis, but we carry on happy as ever. Though my hands have withered, the small white gold ring with the cluster of stones still fits perfectly.
As all things end, so does our blessed marriage. He becomes ill and due to his age deteriorates quickly. It is a matter of months before we have to say goodbye. In those months I stay by his bedside as a permanent feature, and I hold his hand tightly in his final moments. Family rally round to comfort me and make sure I am well, but they cannot heal the heart once broken. It is not long before I too fall ill and, though I love my family, feel no need to fight the fight for life when I could so soon be with him.
In one of my fantasies, I don’t notice the stranger walking towards me. In one of his fantasies, he does not notice me. We barely bump shoulders before he moves on, his vision past me, to the lovely young woman sat at a café table waiting for him.