Mindless Scribbles

Memory-Stained

The curtains drawn jabbed the sunlight from getting in. Lights were dim, as a faint shade against the dark. The bed was messy - memory-stained.

I still remember myself throwing over the bedsheets in a panic. Crawling over his sleeping figure to get going. I haven’t even bothered to kiss him a proper goodbye.

It happened so fast. He was in a car accident, and then he was dead. With his face he just shaved today. With his hair gel.

His unused comb was deadly. It laid there, immobile. His shave was still on the table, and cutting shards of glass into my heart. His hair gel container - his favourite kind - fell on the floor. Crack.

I wish I could have said a final goodbye.

That night, I reached for him, I cried out his name, several times. Before a shudder of cold echoed through me. Before I remembered.

And crumpled into a puddle of tears.