Short Stories

A chunk of hair has just been ripped from my scalp. A scratch across my cheek displays anger through frustration and demanded relief. A need to end this is breaking through the cracks of sanity. We’re all sick of this world.

With each one different, should we try to find a better route to express our hidden, cramped ideas of a secret torture worse than hands or materials can construct on someone? Does anyone have the right to put their mark of pressure on someone else? Does anyone not care when they do?

Picture this:
Staring down a deserted hallway, a red flag dancing in the distance, behind your thoughts. Ahead of you is a garden, full of colorful creations and designs Mother Nature brings us each spring. On the horizon is a deep grey-blue, aching to be feared.
And ache no more, it shall be.

You take a step, for the garden is gentle, warming your fingertips with an innocent heat. Sunlight splays through the branches of willow trees and nearby bushes full of soft, pink petals and a sharp glance to your left indicates there’s more to each side. More innocence, more welcoming fields of roses, sunflowers and daffodils.

But you step farther still.

I’ve realized something today: I can’t pay everything back. I’ve tried and tried to come to terms with this, but no matter how much I try, it’s simply impossible.

Yesterday I went to see Tanya; she smiled gently and held her arms out to me. I let her tears soak my sundress. I let her remember him. She put her ear on my chest and listened to the rhythmic beat of my heart.

I walked into the dimly lit hotel room. I could feel the tears building up at the back of my throat. Funny how that happens, hey? Here it was, my beautiful, younger sister’s wedding day, and I was ready to bawl. She was getting married to the greatest man alive – my best friend. How it worked out that way – I don’t know. All I remember is the way he met her – I was there. I, in fact, introduced them. Secretly, I was hoping to bring him home, woo the family with his charm, and plan our wedding. Somehow, in between the blazing red car and my front door, he locked eyes with my forget-me-not-eyed sister and fell madly in love with her.

I’ll tell you, there’s nothing harder than waiting for someone who’s already gone.

I watch as Margaret bustles about the small kitchen (the woman must have an award someplace for being the fastest housekeeper this side of the Pacific), and I try to focus all my attention on the document resting on the dining table. It’s always important documents here and there; something to take care of, or something to finish up. But it’s just a bit difficult to keep my mind on the things at hand.

I shuffle over to the sink, swiping the familiar chipped mug from the dish rack, and pour myself a steaming cup of Earl Grey. Somehow, I manage this without spilling the drink all over the counter - a feat, considering the arthritis steadily gnawing at my bones.