Story Time

As we’ve all been able to tell rather well from my previous articles, my ability in the satire department is rather weak. So, I’m going to try this. Maybe once a week, if possible, I’m going to write a short story in really whatever topic I feel to. So, without further ado, let’s begin.

I woke with a scream, hands squeezing the sheets, drenched in sweat. Alone. “It was just a dream”, I find myself repeating. Yet, I don’t even remember what it was that shook me so bad. Then again, what else should I expect. I never do, so why should this time be any different.  I guess it’s okay to hope. I just wish I could figure it out. What taunts me and torments me so much that I scream and grab onto whatever I can for dear life. I once even awoke to find myself crying. Is it you? It can’t be. You’re gone. Aren’t you? Haven’t I moved past this? I guess some wounds would rather fester than heal. Maybe I deserve this. After all, I never appreciated you for what you did. Kept me level headed. Comforted me and loved all the twisted things about me. No time to think about that though. Time to start the day. Just… swing your legs around and stand up. Slide on the socks. Pants. Shirt. Shoes. Brush your teeth. Side to side. Swish. Spit. Mouthwash. Repeat. Now you’re ready. You’ve prepared yourself to stagger through another day. Oh wait, don’t forget your smile. That’s the most important part. If you forget it then people will worry about you and we can’t have that.

Just another day at work. Typical menial labor. Nothing special. Going through the motions. Home is quiet. I actually can cook though, which is nice. That’s something I won’t need you for, but it always makes me think of you. As the tangy smell of the marinara spreads through the air and thickens and as I sit with my meal, I’m forced to remember every time we did this. Chatting about life. Work. School. As your photo hangs on my wall… Almost like you’re taunting me. I can only hope that you’re happy where you are now. I know that you were never happy here. Why else would that have happened?

Walking past your room, my hand brushes the knob and traipses along smooth wood. A warmth resonates from it like that that I used to feel on our embraces that I took for granted; those that, now, I feel were seldom received, especially as I grew older. I hesitate. Something compels me to open the door. I do, almost as if I don’t have a choice. As if something had taken control of my body and pushed the door open. I feel it stick, as it always did. Nothing. Your mattress lays there. Still made. All of your knickknacks remain. A thin layer of dust has already accumulated and, despite you being gone, it still feels as if you’re there. I flick on the light. The darkness is quickly swallowed by the light and, just as quickly, overwhelmed by the overpowering darkness as the light bursts with a sharp crack.

With deliberation, I shut the door and wander through the emptiness of the house. I head to my room and shut my own door, despite the fact that no one is there. I turn on the T.V. even though I have no intention of watching it. I pull out the knife you used and stare at it. I long for you. No matter what I try I can’t stop. I love you.

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Story Time

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