This week’s prompt from www.creativewritingink.co.uk is pretty atmospheric, which is reflected in this 230-word story. It’s a Ronnie Corbett tale (bless his lovely soul) – short and dark 😉
Sometimes he couldn’t remember if there were good times. Times he’d been happy, confident,secure, loved. Especially loved.
The sun was out there somewhere, hidden behind that fathomless mantle of damp which stretched endlessly ahead, cloaking reality with its monochrome veil. And things – proper, tangible, solid things – were vanished under the weight of its powers of invisibility. Touched by its blanket he was no different to anyone else.
He had ten, fifteen minutes before he needed to leave. Disappear himself. Because then the world – draped in grey or not – would start to come alive with its regular pattern of waking, breaking fasts, preparing. And people would be getting ready for their day ahead.
All except one. She wouldn’t be rising this morning and reaching for the coffee he promised he’d leave her. She wouldn’t be stretching and yawning and rolling over to check her phone for messages. She wouldn’t be scratching her skull and dragging tired fingers through her pale blonde hair. She wouldn’t be standing under hot jets of water and soaping the remnants of last night’s lust away from her body. She wouldn’t be easing fabric over her impossibly smooth skin and ensuring she’d set the alarm before heading out the door and off to do whatever job it was she was employed to do.
No, she’d still be where he left her. In the same position he’d arranged her. Cleaned, tidied, a spray of scent clinging to the down of her skin. Because he knew how a lady should look, how she should behave, how she should carry herself. He knew this because these were things his mother had taught him.
And he remembered his mother looking just as peaceful, as she now did.