Lonely House

The house sat exactly as he had left it. Quiet, clean, and undisturbed. Good. She hadn't been home to collect her things yet, maybe there was still some hope.

He stomped the snow off his boots, a force of habit after being yelled at for so many years over it, and made his way to the kitchen, where he half expected to find a note detailing the divorce demands.

When it became apparent that she hadn't been home, he sighed and resigned himself to another cold dinner, and another sleepless night on the couch. It had been nearly a week since she left, and she hadn't even tried to contact him in almost as much time. Even for her, the silence was going on for an uncomfortable amount of time.

If only she had said where she was going, maybe he could talk to her. At this point, he was willing to take the blame, even if it wasn't entirely his fault, just to feel her snuggled against his chest again. He would give almost anything to have her back.

He opened the refrigerator, only to find it embarrassingly empty. Unless he could make something with half a dried up lemon and some old mayonnaise, he was just going to have to go back out, or go hungry. Until she left, he'd never realized how much of the little things he didn't have to worry about. She'd wordlessly just taken care of him for years, and in one instant of selfishness, he'd pushed her away.

...

Late at night and early mornings were the hardest times. It was the times she had always been the most loving, when she wanted to lay in bed next to him and cuddle until they fell asleep, or when she made breakfast and kissed his scruffy neck when he came into the kitchen. He would never be able to function properly without her.

Somehow, he managed to get out the door again. He was going to be late, but that was becoming the norm. His clothes, that used to be so carefully pressed and ironed, now hung loosely on his gaunt frame, wrinkled and stained. He never could figure out how she could take the stain out of anything, but he certainly couldn't.

He couldn't stand the looks he got at work. He used to be the buzz of the office; everyone rallied around him. But since she left, they're all quiet, standing from a distance, staring at him with their sympathetic eyes and gossip dripping from their lips. It's not like he was the first man in the office to have his wife leave him, but he was the first man to give up understanding why. 

That was the worst of it, she never gave a reason. Things were fine, he went to work, came home, ate dinner, went to bed. And she was there all the time, seeping into the cracks, filling every aspect of his life, changing the little, minute details until they meshed as a whole and things ran smoothly. The day before she left, she had baked a chicken, his favorite, brought him a beer after dinner, and they snuggled under a blanket on the couch while they watched Golden Girls. It was so normal, he hadn't thought about how special it was. 

Then she vanished, without any real explanation. He spoke to her, only a few times, trying to make sense of it all, but she refused to see him. Nobody asked him about it, they only said they were sorry it happened, and now they won't stop giving him that infernal look of pity. Well, if she would just come home, he wouldn't need their pity anymore.

...

She was a book fiend. Their whole house was lined with bookshelves, holding titles that he had never even heard of until she brought them home. They both liked to joke that they would need a second mortgage on the house just to pay for her used book habit. But she read every single one she brought home, and he didn't mind paying for them as long as it made her happy. She was the smartest woman he had ever known, and if she liked to read, then it was his pleasure to buy her books.

She had left Jane Eyre on the nightstand. It was beginning to gather a layer of dust. She had told him about it every night, as they were drifting off to sleep. He couldn't remember the plot at all, but he spent a long time staring at it one evening, knowing that he could never move it. It was a part of her, although she had never finished it. Perhaps she had bought another copy, and was reading it, wherever she was hiding out, and thinking about telling him every night. Maybe it would drive her home.

That evening, he had gathered some clothes, grabbed his pillow and a blanket, his harmonica, which was the only instrument he'd ever been even remotely decent at, and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't want to be in there without her, it made him so upset. It gave him awful, horrible thoughts, about their last night together. It had been so normal. They had brushed their teeth, settled into bed. He had almost fallen asleep against her while she was reading. She had closed the book and turned the light off, then in whisper, told him something about a school and the disease that had ravaged it. He had quietly mumbled goodnight when she was finished, she kissed him, and they went to sleep.

He glanced around the room. It was exactly as it had been when she was last here. It was infuriating. The idea that she could destroy him on a whim, without ever even giving it a second thought. Because that's the truth; his life was destroyed. He couldn't go on living as he had before, and the prospect of this emptiness being his future didn't suit him.

He closed his eyes, imagined she was lying there. He didn't want to open them again, he didn't want to go back to reality. It was just too hard to face. It would be so much better if it was just over...

His eyes jerked open with alarm. Never in his life had he had visions of suicide dancing that vividly through his head. It seemed to so easy, so natural, so quick. So painless. It was so real, he must had fallen half asleep, dreaming about her, and what he would do if he could not find her.

He rose quickly from the bed, cradling his pillow and few belongings like a child, fear creeping into his heart.

He shut the door to their shared bedroom, unable, or unwilling, to look back. Something about that room put him off, gave him an incredible sense of unease. So he sealed it closed and went downstairs, remembering that he still needed to buy food.

...

At work, things went from sad stares, to hushed whispers, and finally, nobody spoke to him at all. They hardly even glanced in his direction. Perhaps it was due to his haggard appearance, he knew he didn't take care of himself as he should, or perhaps they just couldn't stand his melancholy anymore. Whatever the case may be, he didn't care, because he was about fed up with them anyway. How could they all be so calm, so content? How could they all go on living so normally when the world had shifted out of sync? He needed her, and he knew that wherever she was, she needed him, and none of it made any sense.

He went home from work that night with the same bitter hope in his heart, only to find it smashed to pieces when the house was empty. Not a sign of her disturbed the settling dust. There was no voicemails, no messages, nothing. Not even anyone from the office had tried to contact him. Why had everyone deserted him all at once? What had he ever done to deserve such horrific treatment from those who he once considered his friends?

He passed the bedroom door on his way to the shower that evening, and was struck with the heavy sense of something being on the other side of that closed door. It made him stop, but he couldn't bring himself to go in. 

...

How he had longed for his days off in the past. But not anymore. Not since he had to spend them alone, in that empty, quiet, dusty house with nothing but the television for comfort. 

The day passed slowly, his sullen mood only worsening as night approached and the moon rose. He hadn't left the couch all day, not to eat, not for any reason. He knew that at this rate he might never move again, the mire of depression was eating him alive.

He tried to focus on whatever reality show was playing, but his eyes were continually drawn towards the wrought iron staircase. They had picked that railing out together, early on, before there were any problems. Her biggest concern had been the idea of their future children falling through, so she made sure they made it tight, so no small bodies could squeeze between the banisters. But that fear had proved to be unfounded. There was never any pitter-patter of small feet in that house. Maybe that's why she left, maybe the strain of a childless marriage had finally gotten the best of her. He thought they were able to move past it, after all the tears and the tests and the trying, they had agreed it was for the best. But maybe she'd lied all that time. Maybe she was slowly dying inside. Maybe all this time, she felt like he did now.

Somehow, he found himself standing at the bottom of the stairs. He didn't remember getting up off the couch. The flickering television cast his shadow, large and eerie, against the wall, as he stared up into the dark hallway above.

Something just didn't feel right. He could feel a presence, like someone else was in the house. It didn't feel like her, but then again, maybe he didn't know what she felt like anymore.

He was halfway up the stairs before he felt the cold chill. It felt as if someone walked down the stairs past him, leaving in their wake, an unnaturally cold breeze.

His throat dried up, he couldn't speak. Somehow, his legs carried him higher up the stairs, until he was one step away from the top. His eyes found the shape of the bedroom door in the near-darkness, it's innocent, unassuming form seeming to twist and morph before his eyes.

He blinked, and there it was again; just a door, sealing off his bedroom, a sliver of warm, yellow light peeking out from beneath it.

He sighed. Apparently he had left the light on when he left it. His shuffled tiredly the remaining few steps, forgetting for the moment the eerie feeling that had gripped him only moments before.

Until he was standing before the door.

Until his palm was on the doorknob.

Until he felt it again; there was something on the other side of this door.

He took a trembling breath in, blew it out, and told himself he was just imagining things. The only thing on the other side of this door was his empty bed. The place that was devoid of life, and love, and feeling as lonely and deprived as he was.

But he couldn't shake the feeling.

Something possessed him in that moment; something made him open that door.

...

The light was indeed on. The lonely copy of Jane Eyre  lay unattended on the nightstand. The bed was ruffled where he had last sat on it.

And his own eyes stared at him.

Bulging out of their hollow sockets, his face was crooked sideways, making room for the rope that rubbed against his gaunt cheek. His lower half was grotesquely large, as all the blood in his body had been pooling in his feet and legs for days.

His body swung from it's taught noose as another cool breeze whipped around him; the bedroom window was open. He crossed the room and closed it. Good, now it wouldn't be so chilly.

If only she would come back, maybe she could keep him warm.

He turned off the light this time, leaving the moonlight to light up the eerie figure, hanging from the ceiling. He sighed and closed the door, returning to his reality television downstairs.

As he settled onto the couch, he closed his eyes and imagined her next to him. If she would just call him, he would apologize and make it all better.