This is a flash fiction piece I wrote for my Creative Writing class.
Weight settles on my hip. Familiar, but unexpected and not quite right. My eyes pop open in the darkened room, and without my glasses, the shadows feel alive, almost sinister. Goosebumps form on my exposed flesh. It's cold in here. Heart racing, I wonder why I didn't hear the bedroom door open. I'm usually a light sleeper. A breath of warm air stirs the hair on my neck, and I can feel his presence behind me. The room waits, but I'm afraid to disturb the silence that settles over us.
Eventually, I can't stand it and say, "I miss you."
"I know," he replies.
"I have so many questions."
"You usually do," he says, amusement lacing his voice.
"You won't answer them, will you?"
"You know I can't."
Frustration claws its way through me. I want to know where he's been, why he left, and what he's been doing.
Eyes stinging, I ask what I really want to know, "Will you stay?"
"I want to."
"But you won't."
He sighs deeply, "It's not good for you if I do."
Tears strangle me and flood down my face.
I sob, "Why did you even come then?" before gasping for breath. This is so wrong.
Grief rattles my body, and he says nothing. I love him. I want him to be here. He's missing everything.
"I don't want you to go," I say.
The mattress shifts slightly, and the keys in his pocket jangle, but he remains quiet. I want to breathe him in. I want to smell home once more before he leaves, so I turn over.
Jax's head slides off my hip before looking at me with wide eyes and floppy ears, clearly annoyed that I disturbed him. Stryker lies on the pillow, his nose so close I can feel his puppy breath fan my face before he leans in to give me kisses.
The only signs he was here are the clothes hanging in the closet, still waiting for him to return. It's been six months since he rode out of my life, and yet, he still haunts me.
Struggling to catch my breath, I sit up. My head feels like stuffed cotton, and I need to blow my nose, so I get out of bed. The wind has picked up, and I can smell snow in the air. Closing the window, I head to the bathroom and the bedroom door squeals when I open it.
He's not here.
He's everywhere.
He's part of the floor that I walk on, the kitchen that we built together, and the bathroom where he levelled the tub instead of letting it angle to the drain, so water spills onto the floor, leaving white trails on the black tile like ghostly fingerprints. Nearly eighteen years of memories live and breathe in this house, stalking every moment of my day, and reminding me of what's lost.
Maybe he's right. Maybe it isn't good for me.
I enjoyed writing this piece and would love to hear your thoughts on it! Please share them below.
