Short fiction

Sundays

Standing there she felt so free. Upon opening the window the huge gust of air hit her lungs and she looked out onto the scene below. The inhabitants of Emery Down were gardening and basking in the sun reading the papers, enjoying the gentle breeze: it was a Sunday. She peered over the windowpane and observed quietly the soft lull of people’s inaction. Looking around the room she caught her reflection in the mirror, blankly staring at the sight before her. Aged beyond her years, she gently stroked her face and smiled. Laughing now, she took one final look at herself before turning back to face the outside world.

Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling. The opaque and obscure patterns fell around her, a mixture of colours and shapes. Was it meant to happen faster? Be louder?  Silent? The wind whipped and pulled at her hair, her limbs stretching and contorting like the pinging of an elastic band.  There were the memories of Christmas, of Sundays, of nights just passed on the sofa in front of the television.  Each passing fleetingly through, in a vague yet startlingly distinct film. All at once, it suddenly stopped on one particular scene and it was played over; like the sharp scratching of a blunt pencil it was etched into her mind.  He was there. He was present. He was full of life.

She could see his faint blue eyes, the mop of brown tousled hair only slightly protruding, peeking over them. The warm and sapient gaze bore into her, yet seemed so tender it almost caught her fall. His velvety skin felt warm, and flooded with blood, with life. It hadn’t been all that long; nine months, three weeks, six days, and four hours. That was enough. Sometimes she thought it had been longer; were such ‘memories’ of him real or were they the illusions of her ever-ticking mind? She didn’t know anymore.

 The colours around her began to change like the seasons, summer to autumn. Orangey hues and burnt out shades, swirling and floating like leaves off a tree. The air seemed cooler now, milder somehow. He was smiling; holding her hand like his life depended on it. Laughing, he sank into her bosom and lay there for at least a minute, not saying or doing anything, just existing, with her. Later that day she would kiss him goodnight, gently graze her lips to his forehead and whisper, “I love you. My Earth. My world. My son.”

 Those last words seemed trivial now; perhaps she hadn’t even said them at all. Perhaps she was thinking about work or her garden, and hadn’t said any of it. Perhaps she didn’t kiss him, but turned out the lights and closed the door. She couldn’t remember. Winter was closing in around her, the colours were fading and visibility was dim. Wind was still whipping, sound levels subdued. The slow hollow sound of the air echoed and reverberated in her eardrum like white noise. Blaring of music, sobbing of souls and the wiping away of tears; tissues, mourning, and earth. In a final swift movement she hit the ground with a thud, a sound sure to carry for miles. Nothingness. Emptiness. Gone. As a new body was laid to rest, a small white feather floated to the ground. With a fluttering of wings, a single white dove took off from the rooftop, passing the open window below. The incessant screaming of sirens pierced the silence, and as curtains were drawn back, the inhabitants of Emery Down put down their papers and watched on with mild curiosity. “How tragic… completely out of nowhere…” they’d mutter. Soon enough though, the sirens will stop, curtains close, and the muttering will cease; interest will be lost.

Katie Stalker