Welcome back for part two of, Time – A Short Story. If you missed the first installment click here, Part I, to get caught up, then come back here to read the continuation…
Ready to jump back in?
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Enjoy, Part II of Time – A Short Story
TIME
Part II
“Honey, wake up. Breakfast’s ready”
He stirred.
“Hurry – bacon’s going fast”
He smiled, the smell of bacon filled his nostrils.
He rolled to the side, slid on his socks and rubbed his eyes. He thought about what they would do today. Perhaps some yard sales then lunch. Maybe take their son to a movie then to play at the mall. He was half way down the hall when he noticed the smell had disappeared.
The cobwebs cleared when he remembered.
Time.
Of course, the smell disappeared because she was not there. Dreamt it all. He wanted her to make bacon as she did countless other mornings before their son was born. He longed for the table to be set with a large glass pitcher of orange juice sitting next to the warm syrup she always put out. The smell of the coffee, pancakes and bacon, there and gone. His head swam.
Now reality.
Time.
The force with which his stomach turned was furious. He had never experienced such a revolt. Too soon his mouth was filled with bile then acid. The torrents continued relentlessly until nothing was left inside his stomach, his heart, his soul.
Tears filled his eyes. He collapsed in the hall, where he sat for hours.
When he composed himself, he changed his clothes and cleaned the hall.
All he wanted to do, well there it was – he didn’t know what he wanted to do. Sitting in the living room, he stared into the deep black of the television. Sometimes distracted by his reflection in the screen. Hoping in vain to see her reflection, to see her again – one last time.
For the first time in days, he tried to remember what had happened. It was all jumbled. He could not get a clear picture. Nothing made sense. He could see images of her. He remembered conversations, vacations and various life moments. He could not, however, recall the past few days maybe weeks. All he knew was that she was gone.
He was alone.
He moved to her chair, an oversized recliner they had gotten for feeding the baby. It was brown, torn in places and stained from many years in the house. It groaned as he let out the foot rest. They joked that the next time she reclined she would end up on the floor because there was no way it would stay in one piece.
He looked around the room to see things from her perspective. Perhaps it would help him reconcile the images in his head. Her note pad and papers that she read to his right. They sat next to a glass that had not been moved since before, before the last time he could remember seeing her.
“When was that?” He asked out loud to no one.
He grabbed his head, rolling out the chair to the floor.
“Where are you?”
Getting up, his rage consumed him. He flipped the chair into the wall knocking the table over as well. He tore through the house pushing open doors, depositing clothes on the floor, turning over furniture looking for her.
She was not there, he knew that, but did he? He could not remember. He went in the study and threw all the books off the shelves.
He screamed until he tasted blood in his throat.
He crumpled to the floor, weeping. He fell asleep for hours.
He woke to the sound of the phone ringing. At first hopeful it was her but he knew it would not be. Ignoring the phone, he looked around the room.
He noticed the clock, it was late afternoon – still not hungry.
“Starving yourself will not bring her back.”
Time.
Several days passed.
He avoided all visitors and calls.
He did eat on the third day and had been successful at keeping it down. It was a small step but one he was thankful for.
He began to clean up from his tirade.
He’d been stepping over everything for days.
It was time.
In the study, the books went back onto the shelf – in no particular order. She never cared much how the books were situated. He tried to keep them sorted as book stores did, genre, author, then alphabetically. The study was the one place where he wanted some semblance of order, however, this time, there was no order.
Just get it done.
As he cleared the floor, he grabbed the last book she was reading, the Bible.
He’d never had much use for one of these. It never made sense.
For her, it made perfect sense – “if you let it, if you allow God to speak to you through it.”
“Hog Wash.”
Still, he found himself reading. Trying to find some answers. Trying to find her.
NEXT TUESDAY
Turn up at noon or subscribe and get an alert when the final piece goes live. Feel free to check out some of my other posts while you’re here, I talk about “quitting” or not here and the need for a mentor here – plus more than 100 other posts – as always, I would love to discuss whatever is on your mind.
Photo by Jordan Benton: https://www.pexels.com/photo/shallow-focus-of-clear-hourglass-1095601/
Mick Holt 
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