Morning

© Hannah Ritchie

It was morning; they were the worst. He had nothing to get up for. No children. No wife. He rolled over to find an empty space beside him. His heart sank. It felt like there was a part of him missing, a segment of emptiness inside. There was no motivation in his life. Nothing at all. Except for the hope that he was wrong about the whole situation; that one day she would walk through the door and hold him tight. Unhurt. Alive.

He had to be with her. Living like this wasn't an option anymore. Subconsciously, his arm reached out for the wine bottle that lay next to him. It was almost empty. His wife, Rebecca, had been missing for eight months. At first, he'd thought she just needed a break from her day-to-day life and had decided to take a month's holiday. A month passed; she hadn't returned. He knew she wouldn't return now. The gut feeling in his stomach told him so.
She was lying dead somewhere.

Murdered.

The image of her body lying sprawled out somewhere made his heart stop. A huge claw gripped his lungs tightly, hindering the oxygen from reaching his brain. Her skin was chalk-white, blood oozing from her tender heart. She was still beautiful though; she always would be in his eyes. He tried to block the image out. . He couldn't bear to see it. He shook his head, a single tear trickling down his cheek. The image made his stomach contract, twisting itself into gut-wrenching knots.

He took a swig from the bottle. Since the disappearance, he had been lonely, isolated from the community around him. Everyone had been very supportive at the beginning- neighbours would come round regularly just to check that he was okay. The whole neighbourhood were on the lookout, trying to piece any evidence together that they could find. With time though, it was inevitable that things would begin to ‘die down' until eventually, Rebecca's disappearance was no longer the main topic of conversation. Now, he blocked out anyone who wouldn't have a drink with him. The alcohol had become his only friend. He knew drinking wouldn't help him in the long run, but he didn't care about that. It would numb the pain for now; that was all that mattered. There wasn't long to go anyway.
He would be with her soon.

He had to know that she was safe-- finally safe from what the world had become. Where people would murder innocent beings for their own sadistic pleasure.

His heart still skipped a beat every time the phone or doorbell rang. He still held his breath every time long, blonde hair passed the window. It was going to end soon, though. He could wait.

The loud ring of the telephone passed through the house. He jumped, staggering towards the living room to answer it. He glanced in a mirror as he passed, not even noticing his shabby, frightening appearance. The shower tray lay bone-dry and had been for weeks. The stench of sweat and alcohol would have been unbearable if he had not become accustomed to it. He picked up the receiver, holding his breath, waiting to hear the voice on the other line. It was a disappointing one.

“Tom Alexander?” spoke the flat, low-pitched voice.

He paused, considering whether to hang up and go back to his alcohol, which sat waiting for him.

“Yes?” he eventually replied, deciding against the idea.

“This is Graham, the company manager. How are you doing?”

“Getting there day by day I suppose.” He lied, trying to retain his confident, sturdy reputation.

“That's good to hear. Time is the best healer after all. Things will get better I'm sure.”

“I'm sure they will.”

“Listen Tom, it was reported to me that you turned up for work drunk yesterday.”

“Well, maybe drunk is a little extraneous.”

“It doesn't really matter how much you had to drink, it's against the company policy to drink at all before coming into work.”

“I know. But it was just a one off. I don't know what I was thinking of.” Tom's shoulders became hunched, his head bowed as if ashamed at his stupidity.

“I know you're going through a rough time at the moment. There are support groups out there to help you know.”

This was followed by an awkward silence. “I should really dismiss you on the first offence, but considering you're circumstances I'm going to give you a formal warning. If it happens again then you're out of the door.”

“Thanks Graham. Don't worry, it won't happen again.”

“So, I'll see you tomorrow then?”

“Yeah…see you later.”

Tom staggered across to the corner cabinet, and gulped down a glass of whiskey before sinking into the sofa cushion. There he lay, vision blurred, almost unaware of his surroundings. He clumsily leant over to the table beside him and grabbed his only saviour from the pain he felt --a jar of pills. He attempted to read the label, the words jumped around the sticker, overlapping each other. ‘Take two tablets every twenty-four hours,' he managed to make out after numerous attempts while squinting his eyes. “Eight should do the trick,” he mumbled while unscrewing the cap. He gulped down the tablets; two at a time with the wine that sat on the table beside him. Hopefully mixing the alcohol with the drug would speed up the process.

This was it. The end for him. It would take a while for someone to find him-- or more specifically, his body. His breathing became deeper, his palms becoming clammy. A while passed, Tom drifting in and out of consciousness every few minutes. There was no way to turn back time.

A few minutes passed. These were his last moments. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't gone yet. It was surprisingly painless, most likely because he unconscious most of the time. He would be with her soon. He would see her long, flowing, blonde hair and her deep, soothing blue eyes smiling at him. He didn't try to save himself; he just allowed himself to drift away. He gently opened his eyelids so that intelligent, hazel eyes became visible.
“Rebecca, don't worry, I'm coming,” he whispered with his last breath. His eyes closed as he drifted away to find his beloved wife.

The deafening ring of the telephone echoed throughout the lifeless room. The body that lay drenched in blood, an arms length away from the source of the noise didn't react. This was followed by a loud beep from the answer machine.

“Tom?” The speaker paused after each statement.

“This is Detective Stringer. We've got some news for you. Your wife has been found. She's alive.”