I write fiction & blog about books & films. There’s an archive of short stories & photographs. And, I have a creative notepad, of sorts.
I sat at my desk unable to focus. I couldn’t believe I was really there.
It was like I didn’t exist any more. This wasn’t real: nothing was real.
I wanted to feel something, but felt numb.
Was I really here? I took a photograph to make sure.
The clock said 3.24am. I didn’t know what to do. Even though my mind was blank I felt anxious.
I was thinking about her. I couldn’t get her out of my head.
I stared up at the light. It was one of those cheap paper ones from Ikea.
I looked into the brightness.
I put my hand up to cover my face.
Then I noticed the bug – a small insect crawling along the surface of the paper. I felt as insignificant as that bug.
I went into her ‘studio’, and switched on the light. The light in there didn’t have a shade. There was no bug.
I stared at the floor, as if I expected to see something.
There was nothing there.
The room smelt of paint.
Two of her canvasses were on easels in the centre of the room – both self portraits.
I ran to the front door and fumbled with the chain.
I needed to get out of there.
The moon was out and I could see clearly.
An owl hooted in the distance. Then it was silent.
I walked down the road. It was cold and I felt alone.
Each step I took made a loud crunching sound in the snow.
The trees were covered in snow. It was almost beautiful.
Someone had made a snowman. I looked at it, it looked at me.
The park lay ahead. There was a hole in the fence I could sneak through.
The park was cold and silent. Nothing moved in the moonlight.
I remembered the times we’d played tennis and had picnics on the grass.
Now everything was snowed over.
I kept walking.
I pictured her laughing at me. It was like she was there, but I knew she wasn’t.
There was nothing except the sound of my footsteps in the snow.
It would melt soon enough. By morning my prints would be gone.