Plastic Wings

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Jordan mourns the love of his life, and he copes with death in all the wrong ways. (snippet of a larger work)

Submitted: May 06, 2017

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Submitted: May 06, 2017




The entire house seemed to sink beneath the weight of his body, creaking something awful whenever he inhaled. The silence weighed heavily on his stony heart, crushing what little resolve he had left. And after a moment of momentary suffering, he decided to leave.

He drove for hours, it seemed, and ended up parked across the street from his in-laws. He needed to see his girls. They would understand… right? He turned off the engine and thought for a few silent seconds.

What was he going to say? ‘He was lonely? His heart was breaking again, and he was afraid to be alone? He was slowly dying inside?’ No… None of these would work.

He took a deep breath and exhaled. He had no business even being in this neighborhood, especially not this late. He looked at his clock-radio. It was 10:48.

There was a tiny chance that his girls were still awake. A very tiny chance… But, he decided not to take it. He put the key back into the ignition and decided to leave them be.

Instead, he drove across town and rested his bones upon a wooden barstool. He had old friends in this place that meant him no good. But it was difficult, to say the least, to avoid falling into his old ways. Before long, he was ordering a drink. And though he thought intently about doing so, he didn’t wet his palate. He stared deeply into the shallow, amber liquid before him and remembered…

Many a night, he stumbled to his car and slept there—if that’s what you can call it. Sleep. He cried his eyes out in the backseat until he could scarcely detect the first few rays of morning breaking through the thick, dark tint of his windows.

Three months of his life were lost to self-medication. But by some grace, he pulled himself together. He wanted badly to credit his daughters for his abrupt awakening, but the hard truth was that drinking could no longer numb the pain. So, he began to face the death of his wife sober. And, it was hell.

He saved his tears for weekends, late nights, and his morning coffee. And somehow, one day, he could mourn no more. His youngest had just turned three, and she was becoming more keen. It was because of this that he could no longer hide his agony under the thick cloak of night. And soon, his heart hardened and his mourning ceased.

© Copyright 2018 Jennifer Brighton. All rights reserved.

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