It's better now. You get up everyday, every morning, stumbling across the cold floor to the kitchen to fix breakfast. You consider moving out of this house since it's only you now. There's no one else. Your family and your friends call you, automatically every morning. For whatever reason it may be, you are glad. They are the only constant thing left in this world of silence.

The backyard needs tending to. But you can't bring yourself to do it. You just can't. The coffee you make is atrocious. It tastes like water remaining after you boiled socks. The closets are still a pile. Everything was the way it was before. You get calls to leave the house. Take a walk. A vacation maybe? No. You can't leave. You can't let go. Not yet.

You go to work. Everyone treads on eggshells around you. Like you are something fragile. Breakable. It's been a month and you are still wearing black.

Home is nothing but an empty block of metal, brick and concrete. It holds no meaning for you. They stop by, now and then. Dropping meals, flowers and groceries. In a way, you are thankful for them. but you just wish that they'd leave you alone. The pictures adorning the shelves, fireplace, fridge door and walls are all unwanted reminders. But you don't have the heart to take them down. Because if you do, you might forget. And you don't want to forget.

Last night, when you were scavenging through the freezer for some microwavable dinner, you saw it on the corner of your eye. A grainy picture of the baby that was in your womb. You swallowed down the bile. You lost it too. Just as you'd lost him. A wave of pain washes over you and claims your entire being. It's like liquid fire coursing through your veins, burning through everything. You feel like every breath is a arduous labour. You curl up on the kitchen floor and cry.

Later, when the bout is over, another begins when you watch old videos of him and you. You hold onto the pillow and begin again. As you succumb to the darkness of sleep when your tears have exhausted you, you could almost hear his voice.

"It'll be better."

Labels: Mourning, Short stories