Empty


But oddly enough, I would feel my worst after visiting hours were over. During the long car rides home from the general hospital, I would find myself in a empty hole of self pity. I didn't think about her, about her state, her health or even her condition, but my mind only stopped on myself and why it happened to me. Or how it could. Which is why, whenever I returned home, I set myself a goal to pretend like it wasn't going on at all. Push the emotions and memories back to small corner of my mind, and go on with my day. It made the pain go away, and left no bitter taste in my mouth. So every night I returned home I would put away my jacket, grab myself a scotch on the rocks, and go watch television. I would often fall asleep right there, not even bothering to take off my shoes until much later in the night when I would undress and join my wife in bed. In the mornings I would prepare breakfast for the two of us, and then go off to work. My wife didn't say much during these times, in fact she mostly kept to herself. She ignored my attempts at conversation about more cheerful things, and would often retire to bed early. She was not as strong as me, not strong enough to deal with the twist life had thrown our way. I tried to forget about her, and at work, I would distract myself with paperwork. No one there noticed or even knew what had happened, so it was a wonderful haven for myself. I spent almost all my time there alone. Always alone. But after that visiting hours would come around and I would make my way over to the hospital. She was always there, always waiting. She never spoke, how could she when her body was so ravaged, she never even opened her eyes. I would sit across from her, patiently waiting. For what, I never knew, but still I would wait there for her message to me. One that would free me. Like I said the rides back home were the worst. The cold night sky outside my car would bore into my soul, cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces. Making them black, spiteful. Sometimes I hated her for what she was doing to me. Sometimes I hated my wife. Sometimes I hated everything I could think of, and I would curse the trees and cars around me for allowing this accident to happen. Sometimes I would listen to the radio.

She isn't there anymore. I learned that myself, since of course they wouldn't call me. I remember that day vividly, and I doubt I can ever forget it, even though I already have. I didn't see my wife that morning. She must have gone shopping for groceries, so I made breakfast for myself only. It was Saturday, so there was no work to go to, no haven to accept me. So instead I stayed in until that dreadful time came again. It was just like any other ride. Just like any other visit. And when I arrived they told me she wasn't there. I stood in front of that reception for what must have been an eternity as I stared at the man's eyes. How could she be gone? She was just there yesterday. “No” was his reply, she wasn't there the day before. She wasn't there all week. She never was there. “Never” he said, as if he could even come to comprehend what that meant. Comprehend that it not only meant the past, but the future as well. And then he escorted me out. Alone.

Back home it was quiet, as my wife still hadn't returned. To be honest I hardly cared, as my home was enough of a prison without her. I poured myself my drink, without bothering to take off my jacket. I just sat onto the couch. Suddenly, time itself became foggy, began to melt away. I realized my wall clock was broken, it had stopped ticking. Then the television wouldn't turn on, and the radio wouldn't allow anything but static through it's little speaker. One of the windows refused to open, and a hole in the wall appeared much near my TV. My glass disappeared. There was nothing to eat. The neighbours weren't there. There was nothing to hear. It was colder, all of a sudden. I was alone. I don't even know how long this all took, but by the time I got back off my couch, my home wasn't mine anymore. Like it had never been. So I left, as I had nothing else there. I went outside, and the building was empty. No one was at the reception, and no one was outside. The street was devoid of anyone, and street signs had been bent and broken. I was alone. I walked to the nearby park, and sat alone on a bench and waited. Much like when I was with her, I didn't know what I was waiting for. But He came anyways. He found me on that bench, because he knew I'd be there. With that suit as black as hate herself, he stood in front of me. I started to cry. He knew already of course, he knew everything. I apologized, but he didn't offer a word of kindness, only a deal. He told me that he could help me. I asked him who she was. He told me she was a Rose. I asked if he could bring her back. He shook his head as a car pulled up behind him. He could make her real.

That car brought me back home, deep underground. My belongings were still there, just as he promised. But this time, what was written on my door was different. I was a patient no longer. I was a soldier.


[Oddly enough, this is all I can find. It was clearly from a larger document, but that seems to be lost in records. I say 'seems to be' when we all know what really happened to it. This all reminds me of a phrase my sister used to throw around. “The Seekers are Insane, as Only the Crazy can Seek.” I need to leave; I'm starting to believe that all my digging has caught the attention of some of the higher ups. I need to be careful.

-Rachel]
Last modified on 2010-09-26 11:32:57Viewed 3113 times

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