Forever Yours (Working title, suggestions?)

Forever Yours

by Keaten Franklin

Sunday. The man wakes up. He feels groggy, weak in his bones. He grabs at his face, feeling the shadow of facial hair on his lips. Tossing the blanket off of him, he sits up. He breaths in deep, sighing almost. Raising his hands slowly, he rubs his eyes, yawns, moves them through his disheveled mess of brown hair. "Something feels off." the man thinks to himself. Ignoring the feeling, he meanders over to the bathroom, fidgeting with the doorknob until it opens. He stumbles to the mirror and gazes at himself, questioning and wondering. Maybe he looks older, worn down? He shakes his head and undresses.

On this particular day, the man takes a long shower, his mind is full of thoughts and ideas, conflict and struggle. After cleansing to his suffice, he steps out of the shower to dry off. Feeling less distressed, the man goes to his closet, deciding if he'll even wear clothes today, he has nothing to do. To feel like another able minded human being, he throws on some old jeans, a white cotton t-shirt, and a large grey drawstring sweatshirt.

The man wanders to his bed, sitting on its edge. He looks at the photograph on his nightstand. It's him and his wife. On the bottom of the picture she had written "Your Baby, forever yours." She had passed away 3 years before in a car accident. There was not a day that he didn't think about her. The man missed her with all of his heart, it was his true love, and nothing could fill the void of her death. With so little to motivate him, the man wonders what to do. Should he sit at home and self loath, mope around as he usually does? Should he go out in the streets, get a drink, maybe a new book?

He decides to visit the coffee shop on the corner, minutes away from his apartment. The man slides on his moccasin slippers, posing as real shoes. He leaves his home, the bright sun shining into his face. The man steps down the brick stairs leading to his front door. Reaching the edge of the sidewalk, he takes a deep breath and stretches.

The streets are empty. The barber shop, the little cafe, seemingly deserted. He again, shrugs it off. Beginning to walk across the yellow painted walkway, no cars are in sight. He stops in his tracks. He sees a woman, sitting on a bench down the street outside of the park. She catches his interest. The woman is studying a small brown book. Averting the plan to visit the coffee shop, the man decides that he must meet this captivating girl. He can't remove his gaze from her. Suddenly, a glaring white light covers the man's view entirely, followed by the sound of what seems to be a screech, as he feels an eruption of what he thinks to be wind at his back, knocking him to the street.

Standing up startled, the man stands in the middle of the street, quizzical. What was once a yellow walkway on a worn black street, is now a black walkway, a white street. He doesn't understand. He looks around noticing the world around him has changed. White buildings with black windows, doors, steps. White skies with black clouds. Everything is in it's simpler form. "This can't be real." he whispers.

The sidewalks and shops are full of people, excited and bustling, There are lips moving, conversations being shared. Everyone is smiling, happy. That's when the man realizes, all the people were black outlines, no skin color, no hair difference. He looks at his hands, seeing was the same way. Now he was getting confused, agitated. "What is this!" He screams. No one replies. They all continue their many talks, whether it be on a bench or strolling along the walkways. The man starts to walk down the street, gathering his surroundings. He then remembers the woman. He throws his sight to the park, finding her sitting there, reading that same book.

Instead of white clothes like all the others, the dress that this woman had been wearing before was now a bright red. It attracted the man's eyes. He ran to her, maneuvering through the obliviously jubilant people that crowded the street.

He looked down at her hands, they seemed perfect. Not a scratch, a mark or bruise. The woman didn't seem to notice him, too enveloped in her book. She had a way about her that struck his mind, as if she had resemblance to someone he once knew. She looks up at him, in shock. A tear rolls down her eye. The man's mouth goes agape, his eyes watering up. She stands, as they embrace, that old warmth back again. The woman whispers into his ear "Your baby." He holds her tight, softly, shakily saying "forever yours".