Precious

IMG_20181009_215755281.jpgNevil has been sensing that something was just not right. The days seemed emptier, almost insubstantial. His existence felt lighter? Almost as if it was becoming ethereal.

He would go through the motions of the morning, only to find little clues that someone had bitten him to it: going to pick the milk bottles from outside the door, but the milk was already in the fridge. Who had been in his house? Putting food out for the cat, but the cat wasn’t hungry, just lazily soaking up he sun. Actually, wasn’t he getting bigger? Was he putting on wheight?

Nevil sat down for a cuppa whilst reading the newspaper, but the news where all old. He was sure he’d read all of that already.

He started feeling like he was living a twilight zone episode, where the character had another self from a parallel universe somehow living with him, only this other self was much quicker and beating him at all his daily routines.

The sun was now going down and dusk was bathing the front lounge with a light that made things sharper, more real. Nevil raised from his chair, walking over the newspaper forgotten on the floor, and looked at his reflexion on the mirror. He’d hoped the quality of the light would bring him back into focus, bind him together with that twilight zone self, making him a whole being again. But the reflection on the mirror just looked back, an old man with sad eyes, almost translucent.

He’d been sensing that something wasn’t quite right: when he would go in the kitchen only to find that dinner had already been made and eaten, only missing washing up.

He could sense himself disappearing, a little bit at a time, until there would be nothing left.

So he sat down, surrounded by all the photos of all those years where he had been very real, where every time she smiled at him had made him more substantial, every time they touched, every time he had played with their child, or shared a meal with them.

Nevil sat down with all those photos and he wrote. He wrote until there was nothing else to write about, until all that was him, that he had been, was laid down on those pieces of paper, and all those most precious memories would forever be with him.

(Until, off course, he’d forgotten where he’d put them down).

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