The hinges squealed in protest as the door swung open, but the silence after was deafening, thick and heavy and sickly, pressing down upon her chest.
Her heart in her throat, Lillian pushed to door open and looked inside.
Everything was gone.
Mark's shoes and jackets were gone from the entryway, his spare key was missing from the key rack, and the jade plant was nowhere to be seen.
Everything lurched to a stop.
Lillian stumbled through the apartment, her feet useless, her legs uncooperative. Her eyes darted frantically into every corner of each room, taking in everything that was missing.
His clothes from the closet.
His tea from the kitchen.
His razor from the bathroom.
In the bathroom she stopped and slumped against the tiles, oblivious to the cold. Her fingers twitched, fidgety, and instinctively went to her ring finger on her left hand to spin her wedding ring. It was her nervous habit, the one betrayal of her emotions when the world had numbed her beyond belief, the one little tic she never could control. It comforted her somehow; she wasn't quite sure why. What she was sure of was that, right then, she needed all the comfort she could get.
Instead her stomach twisted, and she grabbed the lip of the tub and and vomited into it, the contents of her stomach revealed as nothing but old hot chocolate. She sat back, gasping for breath, trembling with fear and the cold which she now felt acutely.
Her ring was missing.
YOU ARE READING
Drowning
General FictionLillian Irving, an average Irish woman, struggles to maintain a relationship with the fickle man she loves. Some days he is caring and loving, and other days he acts as if she isn't there. Then, one morning, he is suddenly gone, leaving no evidence...
