Wistful Echoes

By Vaibhava

I rolled over this morning and felt the ghost of his arm around me. Gods this is enough reason to want to wake up every morning. I stretched my arms over my head and groaned and rolled over to face him... Only, he wasn't there. Suddenly the weight around my waist disappeared. My heart dropped as i frantically pull the sheets away, as if he’d be hiding under there. Oh wait, didn't he say he'd wake up early to go golfing with his friends? Of course, how silly of me. I dragged myself out of the bed and made my bed with a lazy pace. Two pillows at the head of the bed and his thick duvet right on top of his pillow. I lean down and bury my face into it and take in a deep breath. Gods. His scent was all over the duvet, and now enveloping me like a dark cloud, forming a protective barrier of sorts. 

Reluctantly, I straighten, smoothening my silk pyjamas. Focus, girl, you got your to do list waiting for you. I glance at the duvet one last time before walking into the shower. I brush my teeth and shortly after, get into the shower. I turned the heat of the tap up to feel the water wet my neck and travel down my spine, eliciting a shudder from me. He always scolds me for bathing in “scorching hot” water. I pick my bodywash up, pause. I set it back down and eye the Black Obsidian Bodywash bottle. Ehhh he wouldn't mind. I quickly spread a bit of the thick liquid in my palm and draw it across my shoulders. The scent of him once again fills my lungs as I slide my palm down my neck, past my throat, slowly. I feel his scent blanket me once again making me weak in the knees. I lean against the cold tiles and tip my head back and feel the hot water wash his soap down my chest and stomach. 

Get a grip, girl. You've got a lifetime ahead with him.

I massage my shoulders, as I step out of the shower and wrap my robe around me. Right next to where mine was hanging, his robe also hangs...dry? Oh disgusting, he went golfing without showering. Ugh I keep asking him to not do that, it's so unsanitary! When does he ever listen?

I walk over to the kitchen and set my laptop on the isle with a soft thud. Work calls eh. Cereal? Check. Milk? Check. Bread? Check. Strawberry jam? Nope. Gotta text him to buy some on the way back. Check. I set two bowls on the isle and shovel some cereal into my mouth before the bowls. I login to my laptop and my timer starts with a ding. I start typing away on my keyboard. The world blurs and spins as I stare at my screen barely blinking as I get engrossed in my work. Minutes turn into hours as a slow darkness spreads across my chest, twisting my insides uncomfortably. My ears ring low and lungs compress in a painstakingly slow gradual pace. Click click click. My fingers turn rigid and tremble, and suddenly the ringing gets louder and the air is knocked out of my lungs. I taste acid and retch loudly, toppling out of the chair. 

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 12pm

The hard floorboard digs into my hips. Why is there cereal all over the floor? Chuckling, I clean It up – the neighbour’s crazy cat probably broke in again through the cracked window. Ugh I love Mr. Whiskers, what an adorable menace it is. It’s 12:30pm already. I call out to him. No answer. I pull my phone out, and open his DMs. He didn’t read my text about buying strawberry jam. I scroll up.

21 July, 20 July, 18 July…

He never responded to any of my texts.

Gotta have known that before getting with a man so career-oriented. But that’s exactly what caught my eye initially—his passion and ambition. 

4pm

This is probably one of those days he goes out for matches with his golf buddies right after the game. It’s still really late, doesn’t hurt to drop a “ill be late” text. Well, I’ll ask him about it at dinner. He has worked so hard all his life, he deserves the best things it has to offer. Might as well help him pack for his work trip. 3 days = 2 suits + 1 business casuals. The door of his closet creeks as I pull it open. That’s weird, it never did that. All his navy-blue formal wears and white shirts hang neatly in the hangers. Leaning in, take a whiff, and it smells of…dryer? That’s weird. I’m only taking it out now right now to iron it. Never mind that. I pull out a couple shirts and lay it down on the ironing board and that’s when something catches my eye. Straight, random faded heat marks on the shirt. Like it had been exposed to heat multiple times. What the hell? Is my hot iron broken? Even so, I didn’t even start ironing it. I take a closer look at the shirts and realise there wasn’t a single wrinkle there… Never mind that. I iron all his shirts anyway but now my head feels heavier on my shoulders. My fingers are harder to move. My breathing quickens and I clench my jaw, staring at a particular spot on the shirt. I grip the hot iron tighter as I go over the same place on the shirt again. And again and again and again. Everything is spinning, but all I can focus on is that one spot. Again. Again. Again. Again. My breath quickens. Again. Again. Again. Again. My head gets heavier. Again. Again. Again. Again. I am being pulled to one side. The room tilts without warning and I fall to my side, head hitting the cold floor, my fingers still gripping the iron. 

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Sirens. Screaming. Him. Him. Shaking me. Him. In my arms. Tapping my cheek frantically. Him. Everything dissolves once again.

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Hushed whispers. Someone caressing my hair. Burnt wood. Rotting. Smoke filling my lungs. I force my eyelids open with great effort to my sister’s tear-streaked face. My head is on her lap. Confused, I call her name and ask her why she’s crying. Sitting up straight shoots shockwaves of pain in my skull but I ignore it. I have to focus on my sister first. 

“Who did this to you, why are you crying?”

“You were almost burnt down in your house”

I was shocked.

“All I was doing was ironing his clothes for his trip. Wait, his work laptop is in there! We HAVE to go retrieve it; he’s practically lost a limb without it!”

My sister did not move

“Come ON! We need to go! NOW!”

She starts sobbing.

“How long is this going to go on, sweet sister? Your husband died three months ago.”

By Vaibhava