Missing You...

Chapter Three

Thursday 27 November, 1980

It was very early in New York. The sun was still hidden behind the tall skyscrapers of the city, and a few stars were twinkling faintly in the early morning sky. In a nearby apartment someone was stirring despite it being nearly four AM. That someone was called John.

John was writhing around in his bed, his face horribly contorted. His eyes shot open and he woke with a start, his heart pounding. He sat bolt upright, shaking to the bone. He relaxed a little and whispered to himself, "Thank goodness... it was only a nightmare."

John's eyes darted around the room. Everything seemed normal, but he was still uneasy. His nightmare had been a very traumatic one to say the least. He had dreamed that he was being ripped to shreds by a pair of large, angry hands. Each time the hands made a rip John screamed out in terror as he watched pieces of his body flying around the room like torn paper and landing in large piles on the floor. John shuddered at the memory and wondered what on earth had possessed him to experience such a disturbing dream. 

John lay back down on his pillow, blood pulsing in his head. He stared up at the ceiling and thought about trying to go to sleep, but deep down he knew he could never sleep again; not after that terrible dream. John tried to decipher the dream, curious about what it all meant despite it scaring the crap out of him. He didn't know what that meant. Nothing that crazy had ever happened to him before. He decided that his mind was still messed up from the trauma of his divorce. John rolled onto his side and felt under the bed. He gently pulled out a small cardboard box.

With trembling hands and his thoughts whizzing around in his head like angry wasps, John opened the box. There were only two items inside. He pulled out the smaller item - a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. John cradled them in his hands, sighing at the memories these glasses brought back. He gently slid them onto his face, blinking as everything suddenly came into focus. 

"Why didn't I wear glasses as much back then?" he murmured, "They're a much better option than walking around in a blind fog." 

John sighed heavily as he pulled the second item out of the box. It was a photo, set in a beautiful bronze-coloured frame engraved with eight short words: I'm lucky to have a friend like you. Tears sprung to John's eyes as he read the message. He remembered the day he'd been given this frame. He remembered what had been said. He remembered who had given it to him.

"I must be crazy." John muttered, wiping a tear from his face, "Why should I bother keeping this if all it does is bring back painful memories? It was all his fault that we came to hate each other and were made so unhappy. It was your fault!"

In a sudden fit of anger John hurled the frame to the other side of the room. It hit the wall with a loud bang and fell to the floor. John jumped and, realizing what he'd just done, flew out of bed and rushed over. He gasped when he saw the damage. He had taken a big chunk out of the bedroom wall, leaving an ugly hole clearly visible. His heart positively broke when he picked up the frame. There was large, jagged crack running the length of the glass, and the photo inside had been slightly torn by the loose glass shards. John couldn't stop the tears from flowing this time. He clutched the frame to his chest and howled. 

This frame had been a gift from his very best friend and here it was, lying in pieces, along with his heart. John glanced down through his misty eyes. The man in the photo was smiling up at him with closed lips, his eyes glittering with fun and mischief. John smiled back, sniffling slightly. He hugged the picture frame tightly and whispered, "You always knew how to make me smile."

John took of his glasses and wiped his eyes properly. Looking at both the frame and the glasses caused his most precious memories to flood into his mind. John tried to block them out, reminding himself that he had been hurt and humiliated, but he couldn't. The glasses and the frame were special parts of his life - the parts he wanted to hang onto.

"Oh, no..." John sobbed, "Why am I feeling like this? I can't stay mad forever."

John took off the glasses, holding them gingerly for a moment, and then shoved them back in the box. He was about to do the same to the picture frame but hesitated. After a few minutes John put the box away and clambered back into his bed. He decided to catch up on some well-needed sleep. He rolled over, smiled at the object on his bedside table, then fell fast asleep.

John had placed the special frame on the bedside table, and he felt a lot safer knowing it was there.

"Goodnight, Paul," he muttered under his breath, "I'm glad I found you again."