Dreaming

Chapter Three

I wake up with the sun. The sheets beside me catching the morning rays are barely even ruffled. The rationality that the day brings once again makes me question the tangibility of Will. Even so, the hope of such a radical idea brings me hope. I lie for there for some time touching Will's side of the bed and think, whether it is real or not, perhaps it would be enough, and I silently thank my subconscious for providing me with such dreams.

I did not have work that day. That meant I needed to come up with my own distractions in order to get me to an appropriate time to go back to sleep. It was just as well as I was keen to delve back into research. I spent the morning with a cup of tea on the outdoor sofa; a place I had not sat since Will's passing. It was the place I would return from work and find him sitting with a bottle of beer in hand, a book in the other. I'd place my handbag on the kitchen bench and he would wave and then gesture for me to join him. We would discuss our days and he would nod attentively to my rants.

I bring the laptop outside and began to search through more forums. Of course, I came across a lot of sceptics who justified the encounters by an extreme form of grief; even guilt. I chose not to dwell too long on those comments, and instead found my hopes again lifted by similar experiences.

I stumbled across a woman who had lost her eleven-year-old son in a drowning accident. They had taken the boat out for a day trip with several other couples and their children. The adults had gotten carried away and no one noticed her son's foot caught in the rope of a floaty, lying lifelessly on the surface.
A tragic accident though I was glad to read that she is visited each night by her departed son. Often she would find him in his room, looking through his telescope. Other times she would find his television and PlayStation on; the screen sitting on the menu page as if waiting for someone to play.

As I read the date of this comment, I was surprised to learn it had been posted less than three weeks ago. Feeling brave, I decided to message her. After all, I wanted to share these experiences with someone and who better than a complete stranger who understood?

I created a profile and sent a private message.

Hello, I saw your comment regarding your son. I am so very sorry to hear what happened and can't possibly imagine your pain. My husband passed several months ago and like your experiences, I have been seeing him frequently at night. I know it's crazy, but he talks to me too.

I guess I am messaging to see how you are going. I'm glad to know I am not alone and that someone else can relate to my recent occurrences, though part of me is still a little sceptic.

Kindest regards

It was now noon. Relieved that the morning had passed, I only needed to figure out how to pass the rest of the day. I contemplated on cleaning but as I glanced around the home, I saw nothing needing a clean. Not that anything needed a clean the last one hundred days I scrubbed everything from top to bottom. I guess the more precise way to phrase it was that I felt no need to clean.

Now what?

I found myself wandering through the house. First, I stood in the kitchen, eying the glistening bench tops or staring in the fridge. Inside the fridge held milk and several containers of leftovers my parents had provided. Aside from that, what used to contain a rainbow of different vegetables and fruit was now an empty white box. Was I ready to start cooking again?

I contemplated on this thought for a few minutes while I leant against the pantry cupboard. Everyone had their hobbies; mine was creating meals, hosting dinner parties and filling everyone's bellies with wine and delicious food. I enjoyed creating something new and watching my favourite critic's expression after the first mouthful. I say critic, but Will had enjoyed everything I conjured up. Then again, the idea of returning to normalcy was like leaving Will behind and I was not sure I was ready.

I left the kitchen and strolled down the hallway. At the end was Will's room. I cleaned it along with the rest of the house most days, but aside from when conducting household duties, I didn't go in there. I opened the door and stepped into the room. The walls were painted a dark green and in the centre of the room was a wide black desk, overflowing with journals, books and loose papers that were covered with scribbles. The laptop was open, as if waiting for Will to spill his imagination onto the screen.

I stepped into the room and took a seat at Will's desk, eying the notes and the catastrophic state they were in.
"No wonder you have writer's block, Will. How can you write in this mess?"
"Because my mind is a mess honey, and that's how it likes it. Putting things away would be like placing all your spices in unlabelled jars."
I had laughed at that and, knowing he had a point, let him be. Then even after his departure, I hadn't had the heart to tidy it.
He had always been a scattered man. His brain was a party popper and his thoughts were the streamers; sprawled all over the place in a pleasing variety of colours, yet intertwined in a manner that was nonsensical to everyone but himself.

I scanned the notes but all the markings were incomprehensible to me. The story I will now never read, for it will be never be finished, lies in this laptop; accessible by a password I never asked for. I was grateful to at least have two of his works available for my viewing. A dozen copies of the hard cover books sat perfectly aligned on the bookcase behind me; each one signed in his large, child-like handwriting. They were the copies I had purchased during their pre-sale; a gesture to show both my support and faith in them; but the sales did not quite reach what we had hoped and no amount of "I am so proud of you"'s, could fix the damage his worst critic had imposed.

And that critic was himself.

You're my biggest muse, Will would remark excitedly, before standing up quickly and rushing to his computer. I had been represented as a character in his previous works. He had portrayed me in the lightest of lights. Of course, my negative behaviour or attitudes were portrayed too; but in his works, they were justified with understanding I had not understood myself. It was as if he saw me deeper than I could ever see myself; presented as an intertwining web with justifications and poetic motives.

I was almost relieved to not be able to read his work in progress even if I wanted to; for I was sure that the murderer in his mystery was depicted closely as me. Only now I imagined my supposed motives wouldn't be so poetic and were instead egotistical, just as the justifications are likely replaced for condemnation.

He placed himself in my hands; hands that promised to always be open, to hold him, but instead they rolled into fists and dropped him.

I stand up from the desk and leave the room. My body is lethargic and slow now. Guilt is the heaviest of feelings I have found. It may not always be obvious, but I'll carry it with me until the end of time.

I head straight to the fridge and pull out a bottle of wine. I pour myself a glass and decide to have a bath. I have gulped half of it down before I've even removed my clothes and decide it's best to bring the entire bottle with me. As the water fills, I place both the bottle and glass on the ledge of the tub. I remove my clothes and briefly eye my body that I can barely look at anymore. It surprises me each time to find that I look the same as I always have. I half expect to see a monster staring back in the reflection. I half expect to see how I feel.

I turn away after a few moments which is all I could bare and take another swig of wine, as if to wash down the thoughts. Holding the glass, I take a step into the tub. I catch a glimpse of myself in the corner of my eye and return my gaze to my reflection. On my lower back I find the forming of a purpling bruise in the shape of a hand.

I drop my glass when I find it is bigger than my own.