Title: The Morning After
Word count: 3,660
Author: Tim Wilkinson
Contact: Tlmntim59.gmail.com
The Morning After
Tim Wilkinson
Senica stood alone in the doorway, barefoot to the neck. Her petite breasts, welcoming smile and the silken smoothness of her tiny, slim form immediately caught Wayne’s attention as he sat writing at the modest, glass topped desk. Immediately comprehending the alluded invitation he quickly tapped out a few hasty and senseless words to end his line of thought, then willingly accepted.
Turning swiftly away from the bluish illumination of the laptops glowing, florescent haze and directing his eyes aim towards the almost pale, translucent smoothness of Senica’s youthful skin, he rose from the desk, joining her in the doorway. Wrapping his arms about her slim, bare waist while looking down into her jade cast eyes, he spoke. “So what did you say your name was?”
Wayne left her sleeping, pulling the light sheets up and over her nakedness. Quietly treading away he couldn’t help but smile, inwardly noting how utterly beautiful and peaceful his young wife looked when hushed and still, abundantly aware that the only thing that looked better on her than sleep…was nothing at all.
Looking in on her once more before leaving, to meet Dell for breakfast, he felt a sudden rush of awe and admiration noticing how her deep black, shortly cropped hair curled limply around her one exposed ear. He bent to place a kiss upon her cheek, but did not for fear of waking her. Instead, he simply fingered the lone curl, looking down at her thin, lightly pursed lips, missing their touch while feeling suddenly as if he should stand Dell up and crawl back into warming folds of the bed and Senica’s arms. Yet with a contented sigh, he shrugged off the temptation and turned away. There was no hurry, his seemingly endless desire and the mounting urgency he never failed to feel in her presence, well it could wait. He had the rest of his life to be with her, to lay with her.
Setting the alarm before silently closing and locking the apartment door, he skipped lightheartedly down the few stone steps to the drive and drove away, looking back only once. As he drove he knew, as he knew each and every morning, that all of the dull, bland and seemingly pointless years he’d spent before finding Senica, all the squandered emotions, misspent affections and wasted time were meaningless compared to but one day with her. He also knew that he had never been happier and wondered how ever, he could be.
* * *
When Dell arrived at the hospital early the next morning, well after two Am, Senica had been dead for over fifteen hours.
“What will I do Dell?” Wayne asked, a desperate childlike tone tainting his broken words as they both sat motionless in the darkened front seat of Dells car.
Dell sat silent a few moments before speaking, taking great care of his words. “My God Wayne…What can I tell you? I know what you are feeling, you know I do. And it will get worse before it ever gets any better. But you…you will do what we all do, what you have to do. You have no choice…none of us ever do. You will hurt…You will know anger, loss and pain, and you will live.”
“My God Dell, but how, how can I go…without…?” Wayne’s head fell to his chest as the grief swept over him, his voice lost in emotion, choked off by the increasing waves of gently rising sobs. It was minutes before he found himself able to speak again.
”When you lost Vickie Dell, How…how did you go on? I don’t see it…I don’t see how.”
“We don’t get to know how Wayne…We only do.”
Dell drove the rest of the way in silence, as Wayne softly wept.
* * *
It was three months before Wayne could even think of writing again, six months before he actually did. He began by working on an old short story he’d filed away unfinished, as he had plenty of those. He chose it as the one to try mainly for the title. He’d always liked that. It was a cute title he thought, “The Muslim That Blew up Christmas,” and on the surface it seemed to him that there was little within to remind him or connect to Senica. And it was a tale he’d once thought worthy of telling, yet as he worked he increasingly found it but a weary exercise in wasted time and useless thought. Yet he persisted, he had to get writing again, to move on as best he could. While in truth, all he truly wanted was to lie down, and die.
The story, set in a rural Texas, surfside town, centered about a young man who seemed at odds with those around him. He seemed different to those he mingled with, even strange, yet possessing of some inner light or charisma that all who met him found irresistible and inviting. It was a love story of course, a sad and tragic tale of an innocent love caught up and surrounded by evil intent and the dark, wicked desires of a malicious character from the girls seamy past.
He tried, working for a few hours, pushing his thoughts aside, yet continually found himself lacking the concentration to continue. And no matter how hard he tried, he seemed unable to steer the story, or its tragic characters, away for the harsh reality of his own implacable grief and the unimaginable truth and senselessness of Senica’s loss.
Anger seemed his only viable response as tears only increased the brokenness of his spirit leaving him cold and ashamed. “Fuck this!” he suddenly raged. My God…Why,” he cried aloud dropping his face into his trembling hands, weeping uncontrollably as tremors shook his stooping frame.
He sat as he was for some time, motionless, staring catatonically out the window towards the swiftly moving lines of traffic on the interstate below. He found himself wondering if they knew, if each of the individuals within the multitudes of speeding cars were aware, aware of what awaited each and every one of them, if each were prepared for the loss, the pain and the wreckage that loving must bring and the sorrow that each, must one day know.
After regaining some measure of composure, he turned from the window. Eager to be finished with the futile exorcise and sure, that if he ever regained the ability to write it would not be anytime soon, he hurriedly typing a few scant lines.
“Denny watched from his apartment window as she slowly mounted the freeway ramp, both plainly visible from his second story view. Walking purposefully, cell phone in hand, she looked his way as he cried into his own, “No...!” Once at the top of the bridge she scrambled onto the concrete barrier overlooking the speeding lanes of traffic beneath her, saying only, “Goodbye Denny,” before tossing her phone downward, then jumping to her death. Denny turned away in horror as her body struck the roadway, instantly crushed and crumpled by the swiftly rushing lines of oncoming traffic.
Angrily swiping the laptop from his desk and turning away as it crashed to the wooden floor below, Wayne stormed from the house, tears streaming from his swollen, puffy red eyes.
* * *
The next morning as the television blared its nonsensical content throughout the room, Wayne listened inattentively as the perky breasted moron anchoring the local broadcast announce in false tones of somber concern.
“Traffic along the west bound I-40 ramp is at a standstill this morning as authorities try to piece together the tragic events that lead to the death of a young woman this morning as she jumped to her death from the Parkway Bridge. Stay tuned, as we will bring you the details as they unfold, story at noon.
Now back to Ted at the sports desk and the latest on the Thunders controversial loss in last night’s division playoff.”
“What the F…”
Turning his head left to the large window facing out towards the freeway, he watched as the long lines of morning traffic crept along and the clutter of red and blue flashing lights collected above and below the bridge a few blocks outside his apartment. Stepping back in disbelief, a flash of fear coursing through him as his coffee cup slipped from his grasp, shattering loudly and splashing a wide swath of milky brown fluid and clinking, ceramic chards across the kitchen floor. Ignoring it, he reached for the phone, quickly punching in the code to call Dell.
* * *
That night as he and Dell shared a bottle of Moscato, Wayne tried his best to push the incident from his mind yet found it difficult. There was something there, something eerie and just beyond his minds reach, looming, whispering…but what?
“Wayne,” Dell began. “Trust me; it had nothing to do with you or anything you could have written. What, you want me to believe that you’re suddenly some kind of mystical prophet or something? No, you’re tired and…Well I’m not surprised, that’s all. You’ve been through a lot. The last thing you needed was some…hell some poor suicidal chick taking a swan dive right outside your window.
“I suppose, but damn Dell…What a coincidence. You have to admit that. Did you hear the news? I mean…does anyone know why…why she felt she had to…”
“You didn’t?”
“No, no I couldn’t…I…I just couldn’t.”
“Nothing new I’m afraid. Seems she and her fiancée were at home and some thug from her past showed up, some kind of stalker, biker type I hear. Well he kicked the door in, beat the crap out the boyfriend and…well abused her right there on the floor, more than once. And well, as you can guess she’d had a sort of shady past, you know, a little drugs, sex, yada, yada ,yada. The sick bastard it seems made the boyfriend watch as he played a couple of porn flicks staring, you know who. Well I guess it was all more than she could take and she, well you know what she did.”
“My God, what kind of animal…”
“Exactly, animal. Well at least they have him in custody. We can only hope they hang the bastard.”
“Yet still Dell. I don’t know…I can’t put it into words really but I feel as if…I feel somehow responsible. But…it’s more than that. It’s not just that I happened to write the exact same thing only hours before it happened, but… Hell I can’t help but feel that I am missing something here, something important, something I should get…but don’t. I wonder Dell, I really do. If I did…if I could have somehow.”
“Wayne, you’re beating yourself up for no reason. That kind of shit may work in the stories that you write, but it don’t wash in the real world, you know that. Like I said, you’re tired and stressed. Grief can do a lot of crazy work on our minds Wayne. Take my advice, forget it, as best you can. If it makes you feel any better write something before you go to bed tonight, something simple, something good, no more suicides and death and such. You’ll see. When you wake up in the morning…nothing will have changed. Damn…I tell you what, write me up as winning the lottery. Can’t hurt!”
Wayne chuckled. “Of course you’re right, fuck it. So tell me, did you ever find Lucy?”
“No…damn it. I have not! That imbecile postman. God I wish I could sue his ass off for leaving that gate open. He did it a dozen times, even after I asked him not to. What the hell was he thinking? Dogs like to run…Dugh!”
“Ah sorry bud, I know you were fond of her.”
“Fond! She was my baby!”
* * *
“Later that night as Wayne lay in bed, staring blindly at the ceiling, something clawed at his mind, something persistent yet vague. Finally, in frustration, jumping out of bed and switching on the small lamp beside his writing desk, he turned on the computer and wrote a few lines as Dell suggested, something good, and short. Then changing into his running shorts, he exited the apartment, sure in the knowledge that he’d get no sleep that night…again.
* * *
Dell lay fast asleep as the rubbery sheet hanging before the dog door fluttered, then fanned open as something large, dirty and hungry squeezed through the small opening. His first hint of something amiss came as he felt the warm, foul breath flowing across his face and felt the weight upon his chest. As he lurched upwards he tried to scream, yet the sounds faded in his throat as he opened his eyes, seeing what sat before him.
* * *
Wayne didn’t awake until nearly four Pm. “Another day wasted,” he thought as he rolled over, cursing the sunshine. Grudgingly he crept from his bed, quickly showered and sat before the small kitchen table sipping his daily ration of white, surgery-filled coffee. As he awoke and the morose blackness of his existence slowly seeped back into his heart, the phone rang. Ignoring it as best he could he waited until the fourth ring before relenting to reality, reaching across the table and grabbing the phone.
“What,” he answered.”
“Well hello sunshine,” responded Dell.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Gosh, so nice to be appreciated.”
“Ah Dell, you know what I mean.”
“Sure. Hey, listen smiley. I just wanted to share a bit of good news. Seems we don’t get much of that round here, so…”
“Good news. That’ll sure be damn change of pace, shoot.”
“Lucy’s back!”
Wayne froze. The ceramic mug, slipping from his fingers, crashed to the floor and shattered. “Shit!” cursed Wayne at his repetitive clumsiness. “Not fucking again!”
“What’d you say Wayne?”
“Oh nothing.” Forget it…” he spat, his voice rising in volume and urgency as he continued. “Dell…Dell tell me…is she wearing a red collar, a new one?”
“What…a red collar? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Dammit Dell, answer me.”
“What’s up with you today Wayne, are you all right?”
“God dammit Dell, this is important. Listen to me! Is she fucking wearing a new red collar or not!”
“Well yes…she is. How did you know and what of it? What the hell are you rambling about?”
“Shit Dell…” he shouted into the handset.
“What’s up Wayne? Why the…”
“Dell, shut the hell up! Get the fuck over here now. Please,” screamed Wayne, dropping the phone and rushing across the room to the computer.
* * *
“Read it Dell, read it! I wrote this last night after you left, just before I went out jogging and then to bed.”
“What the F…”
“Just read it dammit!”
“Ok…Ok, chill.” Dell sat before the lighted blue screen, adjusted his glasses then read the few lines typed there.
After a few seconds he spoke. “My God Wayne…how the fuck…No, this can’t be. This…No, no fucking way man. You expect me to believe this shit?”
“Yes Dell, I do. It’s true . I can’t say how. I can’t say why. But by God it’s true .”
“My Lord, then…you were right? You…really?”
Yes Dell yes…read it again.”
Just as asked, yet more to convince himself of what he could not accept than because of Wayne’s request, he read the few lines once more, aloud.
“Dell slept soundly as Lucy made her way back home. The nice man who had been keeping her, the one who’d given her the new, pretty red collar, well he was ok, but she missed Dell. By the time she managed to find her way home she was dirty, hungry and tired. Squeezing through the doggy door, a bit too small for a full grown Golden Retriever like her, she rushed into Dells bedroom, jumped up on the bed and lay across his chest, proudly announcing with her hot, sour breath, “hey Dad, I’m home.”
“Jesus,” was all he could say.
“Don’t you see Dell? Don’t you…Think about what this means.”
“No Wayne…no. You don’t think…You’re not talking about…?”
“Yes! Yes I am dell, Senica!”
“My God Dell exclaimed…No. No it couldn’t be that simple!”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Because it goes against all logic, because it’s insane, because it’s…hell I don’t know, because this is crazy!”
“Crazy…You want to talk about crazy! Is it not crazy for a perfectly healthy young woman to die while sleeping in her bed, for no apparent reason, with no apparent cause? Crazy! Crazy! You want crazy? That’s fucking crazy! You want crazy. A young woman I’ve never seen or heard of takes a soar off the Parkway bridge the morning after I wrote it in a story. Crazy Dell? This whole fucking thing is crazy!”
“Ok, ok Wayne, calm down. Let’s think this through. So you think that maybe you wrote something, and that is why Senica…?”
“Yes, exactly! Why not, you’ve seen it yourself; The girl, Lucy…come on, the red collar! Did Lucy have a red collar? Did she?
“Well no, but come on Wayne, it could have been any color, blue, brown. Surly the odds aren’t that high that it could have just as easily been a red one, pure coincidence; a strange one, no doubt, but still a coincidence.”
“But it wasn’t blue or brown it was red, just like I wrote. And...and the girl, remember? Just as I wrote it, it was some…some, oh hell what did I say? What came between her and her fiancée? What pushed her over the edge, the…the evil intent and the dark, wicked desires of a malicious character from the girls seamy past, right? You said yourself it was some biker type that came back and screwed her all up.”
“Come on buddy, how many young girls have some asshole in their past, made a few porns or posed for a few pics? That’s no proof in itself.”
“But Dell, both, the morning after…come on…this don’t take no genius here.”
“Ok… let’s assume that there is something to this. Prove it. What were you working on the night before Senica died Wayne? What story…Come on think!
“You don’t think it was…Could I be right Dell. Could it be…I can’t get this out of my head. I knew when I heard about the girl jumping. I knew that there was something, something I was missing. I knew goddammit! And now, with Lucy…. No Jesus, “he exclaimed, dropping his hands into his palms. “I…I, I did it? didn’t I Dell? I, killed Senica.”
“Now Wayne, wait a minute, don’t even go there. We don’t know any such thing. Let’s take this one step at a time. Think, what story were you working on?”
“I don’t…Shit I don’t know! That was six months ago Dell.”
“Yes you do Wayne, think. I know how you are. You live and breathe stories. You do know and you can remember. Just think.”
Turning, Wayne hurriedly clicked through a series of folders on the computers desktop, his eyes focused, a bead of sweat suddenly appearing on his deeply furrowed brow. Then suddenly he stopped.
“Got it!”
“What Wayne, what? What is it?”
“A Question of Relevance. That’s it. I know it is. I remember now.”
“A Question of Relevance? Ok…then go on. What’s it about, What did you write?”
“I remember clearly now but! Hell Dell it’s just a crappy little story about a man entertaining the idea of a romance with an internet stranger, an Asian lady who he knows nothing about besides a few chat sessions they shared and an image she sent him. An image of her in a swim suit, lounging before the camera…”
Wayne’s hand held still upon the mouse, the pointer hovering over a folder titled with the same name as the story. His mouth open, frozen in mid-thought. “No, “he exclaimed.
“What did you write Wayne? Open it…”
“Shit Dell, I’m scared. Could it be? Could it be that easy?”
“What Wayne, tell me. What did you write?”
“I got bored with it. It wasn’t going anywhere and…and Senica waked in. She…she…She pulled me away so I…I blew it off and I…”
Wayne double clicked the folder, opening its contents to his view and then did the same to the one file stored within. Scrolling quickly to the last two lines, he read his hastily keyed words. Then again, reading aloud, Wayne carefully repeated the words he had hurriedly typed the night before Senica’s death, just before he’d risen and taken her in his arms.
“After pressing the power switch on the face of the pc, Wayne,”
Pausing, anxiety rising in his breast, he began again. “Here it is, the last line…”
“Wayne went to bed…she died the next day, too much good luvin!!!”
“Sweet Jesus Dell… Could we? Could I…You think?”
“Shut up Wayne. Shut up and type!”
Wayne began slowly, using the backspace key to erase the last line, one character at a time. Then he began to type.
Wayne went to bed…
“Careful Wayne, Think it through,” urged Dell.
He continued. When he awoke, his young wife still wrapped in his arms.
Stopping, he deleted a few words then began again.
“When he awoke, his young wife Senica still wrapped in his arm, he turned to face her, her bright green eyes and loving smile greeting him as they did each morning.
“Up and atom, Adam Ant,” she said. “Let’s go out for breakfast this morning Wayne. I’m always famished after we…make love in the morning,” she said, removing her slight, silken top and rolling atop him.
* * *
The next morning Dell met Wayne at their favorite breakfast diner on the strip downtown, just beside the fountains. Senica looked lovelier than ever, her cheeks filled with the rosy glow of happiness and the fervent flush of young love.
“I guess that…story of yours is turning out ok,” asked Dell, knowingly.
“New story? Cool. What’s this one about babe,” questioned Senica, turning her head to face him.
“Oh…Well I thought I might write the world’s longest love story, a beginning, a middle…no end.”
© 2013, Tim Wilkinson
