Young Writers Society

A century come and gone and I am but a witness. In it I leave children to shape tomorrow. Today I am but a man; A man with a lifetime beneath his belt. A man with demons laid to rest and sorrows no longer drowned. Cicadas remind me of the coming night.

A sweet repose that will end only when the archangel's trumpet sounds. I rise as the world comes to life, man shakes the cold from it's limbs and the sky burns with the sun.

The morning has come too soon, or at least too soon for me. Dull white sunlight bleeds through the curtains just above my headboard and paint my sheets a powdery white, my leathery flesh unaccosted by it. There is no partnered breathing next to me, no long locks of grey hair to admire, no lined features to trace. She had left me on a morning like this, a morning so quiet and lonely, she didn't bother to wake me for it. A feeling of something welling up overcomes me, and I force it back down, my tears wont give her life.

A ripple of vertebrae comes from my spine as I sit up, rolling my neck to relax the tense muscles. My hands feel like they are covered in sand paper, the sheets clutching to the dry skin as if through magnetism. The slow march to the crampt restroom at the end of the hall is amplified by the low arched ceiling, every thud of my heavy heels shaking the picture frames and metal adornments along the wall like a striking hammer. The dying fluorescent light in the center of the room just before the shower buzzes with decaying circuits and an almost spent light-bulb, a black ring of dust and deceased insects just near the cover's rim.

I don't feel the pelting water from the shower-head, or the scalding heat, all I'm aware of is a rolling thunder of sound and a rough pounding just above dead nerves and reddening dermis. Steam rises from me as I climb out, the morning's cold waiting just outside the rolling shower door like some anxious guest. I clear a patch of mirror so that I can examine myself while I shave and see in the reflection a hovering darkness, oppressive yet patient, keeping to itself in the shadowed corner of the shower's rear wall.

I keep my eyes locked on the reflection, steam blurring it more and more, my body's captured heat releasing itself in anticipation of some spectral pull. Instead I see only an emerging shape, a rounded object topped with what seemed like a viscous candle, the depths of the shadow still holding strong. A milk-white outline of what seemed to be a face followed, a black smile carving itself across the opaque bottom center. I turn as quickly as I can and hold out a defensive hand, ready to push back whatever malevolence it may be, but instead only a thin beam of sunlight from the high window off to my right greets me, replacing the apparently imagined darkness.

The mirror is empty, save for what it reflects of my tangible form and world, even pressing my eyes till I feel them burn reveals no revived apparition. It is all surreal, the quiet and dispersed air, the chill that had plagued me now replaced by a heavy moisture from dead steam. Everything around me seems speckled and coated with thin translucent coats of negative colors, the teal bathroom tiles keeping a red and purple shading. I shake my head and rub at my eyes, looking again to see a brighter world than I had before, the light now touching everything about me and bringing a reassuring warmth to my bones. I sigh and lean against the sink, pressing my palm to the mirror as if it will suddenly swallow me whole.

I stare at my sunken eyes and gasp for a moment, the forgotten sorrow now rising once again and breaking through. Tears fall and spatter in the sink bowl, clearing away streaks of soap-scum and brown dust. No-one rushes to support me, to grip my hand and loop a supportive arm around my midsection. No feminine cooing, no rush of action and energy. Nothing. I fall to my knees and press my forearm into my brow, trying to force back my pain and sadness.

"Lorena, why aren't you here, why aren't you kissing my cheek and telling me I'm not alone, I'm not dying, I'm safe?"

Nothing answers me but a distant bark of some alleyway mongrel mutt.

"You were always my salvation, always my love, always."

Memory brings a tendril of prickly sensation up and down my back, the expectation of someone's action. I lean to my left and grasp for something, something human, something warm and feeling, something that can return my emotions, and I grasp nothing but air. I fall to my side and grab my shoulders, pulling my bony and blackened knees towards my stomach.

"Hold me... I just want someone, something, I want something need me again, to give me reason to open my eyes."

I clench my eyes shut and feel fluid buildup, refusing to let it out. I cry silently, continually groping about for something to take my hand.

"Please, please don't let me be alone, I don't care about death, so long as its not alone, please, please."

My wheezing cries are unanswered.

The day moved on, and so did I; collecting myself, cleaning myself and dressing myself, all without a thought of my collapse. I pull on my favorite boots and lace them slowly, pulling them as tight as I can manage without being uncomfortable. I walk through my kitchen and tap on the top of the refrigerator, an old ceremony long engraved into my mind. The front door opens slowly and resists when I try to close it behind me, finally submitting with a harsh pull and settling neatly back into the frame. I step to just the edge of my porch, the overhanging wooden awning casting a shadow about a hard ahead of me, and survey the day.

I look down at my boots and smile, a thought coming to mind.

"I'm dressed for nothing."

Night came almost as untimely as morning, and sleep came just as unwelcome. The spirit to go through the ritual of retiring properly leaves me and I instead collapse fully clothed into a leaning and deflated easy chair to the right of the foot of the bed, mindless commercials and shows with names I don't care to remember casting odd colors on my form. Tired of the aimless dialogue I turn off the set, sitting in the captured night of my room.

My eyes close easily and for a moment, the ambient quiet is gentle. My hands lace fingers and sit in my lap, my body pressing backwards on the chair to push out the leg supports. I lick my lips, and without knowing what I am thinking, I speak to the abyss.

"Goodnight Lorena, I'll wake you tomorrow for church."