to write a story
Wrote something today.
Could or could not be the end of the story.
I would love feedback. Have not edited once.
It’s him.
Out of breath already, she flew to the spot where the man that enamored her with stories of adventure, of hope, and of life abandoned her. Against the sycamore tree he stood, casually smoking a cigarette, ever so nonchalant. When she had seen him last, he had been sobbing; now he stood upright and confident. Wherever he had gone, it had changed him. She just hoped it hadn’t changed him too much.
“Danny!” She shouted, laughing. “Danny boy! Remember me?”
Slowly, his eyes met hers, his lips curved into a smile. “I never forget, Leah. Come here.”
Eyes lit up, she fell into his arms. His cinnamon scent - always what she adored most - wafted over her, and she felt at home. For a few moments they stood together, hugging. Then Danny lifted her chin, and leaned in close. Leah closed her eyes, anticipating a kiss, but instead he spoke.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
Leah’s breath caught. What did that mean? “I was out for groceries. I pass this way every time… Remember when we carved our -”
“I’m serious, baby. It’s not safe. I’m not safe.”
“You’ve been gone for a year. I have the right to see my boyfriend after a year, don’t I?”
He hesitated. “Come with me.”
Holding his hands had always been an adventure for her. But now they were clammy and cold, uninviting. He dragged her to a bench in the park concealed by greenery. Sitting down, he buried his face in his hands. “You never did what I told you to do, did you?”
“I… What?”
“Leah, answer me. Do you or do you not idealize every waking thought that find passage into your head?”
“… I suppose I do. Is that a problem? What the hell is wrong with you?... You’re looking pale.”
“Oh my god. You can be so dumb sometimes.”
“Now wait a second -”
“No. Wake up, Leah. I’m not real. I’m just… not.”
Quickly he took a piece of paper out of his pocket, scribbled something on it with a black ballpoint pen, and crumpled it up. He placed it in her hands, enclosing it with her own fist. “Remember me,” were his last words to her.
And slowly the love of her life began to fade away. His panicked, red-rimmed eyes found hers, and slowly she watched as a transformation took place. First his feet, his knees… Dumbstruck, she sat there and watched his torso become transparent, and then suddenly he was nothing, he had never been there, and she was crying, big, heaving sobs as tears like bombs fell to the grass, and she still smelled his cinnamon scent and his big brown eyes had peered at her as if to say, “Help me, please” and it had been her fault, all her fault -
-----
Awake.
Blond hair in her mouth.
Sheets off the bed.
She stood, wiped the tears from her eyes.
Of course. Once again, another nightmare.
Two weeks ago, Danny Boy had committed suicide in his own apartment. Police found writing on the walls - a message to Leah. “Close your mind, realize what realists do, be strong and you will find me.” Police said the message was irrelevant, that his dead body was mangled and there was no way that she would ever “find him.”
But nightmares still paraded through her nights.
Swallowing, she turned, then slowly began to go through the action of making her bed. As she lifted the sheet, there was a slight crinkle noise. Confused, she threw the sheet back.
There, a crumpled piece of paper lay. She pressed her fingers against her hand, where she still felt the contours of the paper when she fisted it in the dream. It couldn’t be… Only… Maybe… In one second she smoothed it out, dropped it on the mattress, and backed away in horror, eyes filling up once again.
The paper read, in black ink:
“P.S. I still love you.”