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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Drama · #2237061
This is a fictional tale of two people, and the life they shared together.
My heart pounded like volumes of crashes that deafened me. Tears welled in my eyes, temporarily blinding me. My knees wobbled. My head hurt. In an instant I was prone on the side of the road.

"Frances, Frances, is it you?"

I peered through my sun glasses.

"Tony, is it you?"

"Yes, Frances, it's me, Tony."

His hug threatened to break every bone in my body. He held me in his arms as I struggled to ignore the thump of his heartbeat against my breast.

"It has been months since high school," he said as I gently pushed him away.

"Yes, indeed. What are you doing in this part of town?"

"I came looking for you."

I was silent as I peered into his face. Was he joking?

"Since we parted, I have been wanting to find you. Now that I have found you, I will not let you get away from me."

"There was some news about you and a girl," I said as I stepped back.

"I want to marry you, Frances; I love you, have loved you since our high school days," he said as he gripped my hand.

"You never told me," I replied as I pulled away from him.

"I am telling you now. Will you marry me?"

He was beside me again, his eyes appealed for my reply. I was confused. When we parted after high school, we were good friends. However, he did not get in touch with me even as I hoped he would. I got busy with my job at a publishing house. In the weeks that followed, I started night school to study journalism. I wanted to be a writer. However, I did not have an inkling at all that he wanted to marry me.

"When did you realize you love and want to marry me?"

"The day we said goodbye at graduation. I wanted to tell you then. I had no prospect of a job at the time. So I hunted for one and found a reporter's job at a newspaper company."

"But I gave you my address and telephone number when we parted."

"Unfortunately, I lost them and I was just so angry with myself. It took me some time to find you; and now that I found you, please marry me?"

I closed my eyes and remembered how I missed him so very much. When he did not even bother to get in touch with me, I thought that was that.

"Frances, do you love me as much as I love you?"

I looked at him and then he knew. He pulled me close to him and we kissed, long and hard. And then we walked hand in hand to tell the world of our love.

The rain started to fall as we arrived at the party. Hardly anyone noticed the impending bad weather as the night revelry progressed. I peered at the misty glass window, felt a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. I pretended not to worry then. It was the eighth month of our first pregnancy.

The thunder and lightning did let up as Tony and I left the party. The moon peeped behind thin clouds, that created caricatures of images that made me shudder. Tony took the wheel. We glided at medium speed, deliriously expectant at the birth of our firstborn.

I woke up at the sight of Tony's bloody face staring at me. I convulsed and screamed. I struggled to get up but hands sprouted everywhere, pushed me back against the pillows. Both bed and pillows became drenched with blood as I cried. In agony.

Who said losing a child would not affect the lives of two human beings? I became utterly confused. I cried most of the time. Tony was solicitous in a strange, robotic way. I brooded. I refused to leave the house, even for shopping. I saw rain clouds in the sky, brimming with images of a coffin, a tumbling car, and a baby, that drifted in and out of my feverish mind.

When our final break came, I entered a sanitarium. Behind the thick walls I escaped the accusing eyes that blamed me. I felt safe behind the stonewalls of the sanitarium. It warded off prying eyes into my state of incomprehension. How odd, though, because I thought of my Mama and Papa as I brooded. They were my rock, the two people who loved me and kept me close to their hearts. When they both passed away, a mere month of each other, I became a lost soul.

Writing became the energy that kept me alive. The events of the past became alive in my writing. Healing was not far away, I thought.

One day as I started a new fiction, I began to type as I focused upon my thoughts. It was my heartbeat that ticked aloud, made my fingers type as fast as my thoughts ran. I could not remember how long I was absorbed on what was running through my brain. However, when I began to reread what I had written, I was blown to pieces. There were exactly 504 words of fiction staring me from the computer. The words were bitter memories of my life: of Tony, our marriage, our wonderful togetherness of eight years, the break-up that mingled with my tears, and the final end of losing a child; that beautiful togetherness was gone; only memories lingered ...

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