Everyday, he would arrive. Whether rain or shine. He would trudge down the gravel path to a lone resting place, away from the rest. A singular rose in hand. He would lay it down, clear away the previous rose, and talk to his beloved. He would explain his day, talk about the people he had seen, the people he missed. Once he’d talked he’d reassure the stone that he’d be back tomorrow and trudge away.
He’d go to the bar, and sit alone. He’d order his loves favourite drink, once or twice. He’d stay until closing, nursing each drink for an hour at a time. The staff tried to befriend the man, never succeeding. He would simply force a smile and request to be left alone. He was never short of disrespectful, just preferred solitude.
By the time he returned home, it would be late. He would move through his home, slowly. Settling down on the sofa, never the bed. The bed was not his anymore. Each night was cold. His sleep would be restless, and his body would ache. Every night.
By morning, he would be exhausted. He would move to the kitchen and drink his whisky. Only a glass. It was for courage. Courage for the day. He would then get dressed, attempting to look presentable, before heading out for the day.
During his day, he would see friends, they would attempt to lighten his mood. They would comment on the weary look in his face, the circles under his eyes, growing darker by the day, the expression of defeat he constantly wore. There time together, for him, was nothing but a distraction, a way to pass time before he can once again visit his love once more. He would trod to the florist and purchase a singular rose. Before returning to the same gravel path to speak to his love.
Every day was the same. A never ending repeating nightmare. The sleep would become less. The friends became less. The conversations would become shorter, the drinking would become more frequent. His already weary self broke down, slowly becoming nothing but a shell. He suffered through his days. Never attempting to escape the nightmare, he felt the need to suffer. He wanted to feel the pain. Everyday, the pain became worse, everyday he welcomed the pain. The pain was what he deserved.
Soon enough, the day came where no visit to the resting place came. There were no more friends to see. No more sleep to have. No more drinking to be done. Friends heard through whispers and rumors. They muttered their grief through questions with no answers. What could have been done? Why didn’t we see it? Why did he do it? They would question for the rest of time, yet no answers would surface.
Manic Writer 