Thank you for the amazing reviews! You have no idea how encouraging they are to me. So encouraging I decided to finish and post another scene already! So here is a gift to my wonderful and loyal readers.
This chapter describes what happened in the basement during "The Absence" chapter of my story "Curtain Call." Aaron just ran away from home in an attempt to save himself and Sean, but his mother caught him and locked him in the basement as punishment. The only difference from my story is that Aaron is not handcuffed in this version. That detail just made some things too impossible in this scene, so I changed it.
—-
10:00 PM — There is no way out. I feel like a scrap of bread being saved in the cupboard for later. Out of sight and out of reach, safe maybe, until she decides to come back for me. Then it's all over.
Aaron had spent much of his energy trying every door and window without success. For the first several hours, he planned his escape. He devised new plans with every object he found, contemplating how he could open the door with a coil of broken garden hose, the lid of a detergent bottle, or a handful of clothespins. Whatever he tried, he could not force the lock.
After a while, he abandoned the door and stood on a stack of boxes to reach the window. He tried to pry the pane open with an old dress shoe. Failing at that, Aaron took a discarded spoon and began hacking at the plaster, hoping to dig around the window frame. He only succeeded in chipping off some paint.
Nothing worked. He kicked the wall and marched away in defeat.
Don't act like a child. Don't fret.
Mom had the keys. She would let him out, when she was ready. Until then, he had to occupy his mind.
Aaron sat down on an overturned laundry basket and began counting in his head. When he reached three hundred forty-seven, he started miscounting and losing focus. He had hoped Mom would let him out in time for dinner, but that was an unrealistic hope. Aaron had been nauseously hungry before, but this time the pain was doubled by anxiety. What if Charles came back early from the hospital? What if Mother just handed the baby to him?
The worry did nothing to help. Aaron lay down on his side, holding his grumbling stomach. He was used to sleeping on a few rags on the concrete, but now he felt colder than usual. He waited nervously for Mother to come downstairs and finish up with him. Only then might he have any chance of dinner.
He waited until his eyes began closing. Soon the basement disappeared, and nightmarish sleep overcame him.
— — —
7:00 AM — It's time to get ready for school. I think we're studying microscopy today. But I'm... still locked in. Guess I'll study the mass of ants behind the washing machine instead. They're small...
He only looked at the ants for a short time. A wild idea overtook him, and he reached out to grab one of the scrambling black insects. The rest scattered at the disturbance. Aaron pinched the ant and brought it to his lips, but it squirmed free and circled around his fingers. Aaron cupped his other hand around it; it crawled between his thumb and pointer. He placed his mouth over the side of his hand and captured the ant underneath his tongue. It didn't have much taste, and it popped softly between his teeth. Swallowing, he wondered how much sustenance something so tiny could provide.
The other ants were gone. So much for microscopy. Maybe I could get a C, at least?
Aaron pulled himself to his feet and walked over to the boxes he had stacked to reach the window. He climbed onto a box and stood on his toes to peer through a crack at the top of the window. He could just make out the morning light. It smelled like a beautiful day.
He remembered another beautiful day when he sat alone during lunch, like usual, and then Haley came up and offered to help him find a school club to join. Aaron was starved of friends. Those once closest to him had quietly drifted away when his father died to avoid the emotional baggage. Those he knew now suspected his painful home life and didn't care or were too afraid to get involved. But Haley insisted it was still possible to make some friends.
They stood in the student resources office, going through a list of clubs with a counsellor. Most of them, such as break dancing club or Bring Back the Pet Rocks club, didn't spark the faintest interest. But when the counsellor mentioned the swim team, Aaron perked up without thinking. Of course, Haley was thinking for him.
"No, Aaron doesn't want to join the swim team," she said, too quickly. She put a hand to her mouth, too late. She glanced over at Aaron. "That is, he has said..."
"Yeah, that's right," Aaron sighed. "Swimming's not for me."
The truth was, he missed swimming just like he missed so many other normal activities. But people would get suspicious if he insisted on coming to the pool in long pants and a shirt.
In the end, the only club that appealed to Aaron (and that he could safely join without being nagged by suspicions) was the baseball team. Aaron met some of the team members that day, and he got a quick rundown of the game's rules.
Walking with Haley and Jessica during a break in tryouts, Aaron gazed at a wide lake that settled just outside the school grounds. He crouched beside the water and watched it stir in the breeze. He hadn't realized until today how much he missed running outside in his swim trunks and diving farther than anyone else could into deep water. He could tread water for such a long time and hold his breath underwater for record lengths. "Wouldn't it be cool," he once asked his dad, "if you could shoot a gun underwater? Do you think that's possible?"
Dad had laughed. "Impossible... for anyone but you!"
It was a silly, random idea. Aaron used to want to do everything in the water. Ball games, races, competitions, combat. It was exhilarating.
Now, his parents had stolen from him the simple joy of swimming.
As Aaron reflected on his former favorite pastime, Jessica gasped in surprise behind him. The wind had taken a lustier turn and swept her ball cap right off her head. Aaron watched the red hat sail in a drunken curve that ended with a soft splash in the middle of the lake. While Jessica grumbled over her loss, Aaron started to grin.
"I'll get it," he announced.
"But Aaron..." Haley held up a hand. "It's very cold, I'm sure."
Aaron wasn't fazed. He took a few steps backwards, then broke into a run toward the lake. The girls just stared as he leapt over the thick reeds and splashed, fully clothed, into the lake.
First he sank rapidly to the bottom. Bubbles and ribbons of sunlight rippled around him as he let his weight carry him through the water. When he reached the bottom, he used his legs to push off the pebbles and propel himself back to the surface. As he broke the surface into the blinding glare of the sun, he realized that Haley hadn't been kidding. The lake was easily below zero degrees.
"It's COLD!" he yelled, feeling ice cement every bone. He shook and struggled to take deep breaths.
The girls at the bank were laughing. Aaron had jumped right in, a fearless macho figure, and now he trembled as the frigid reality hit.
But the longer he treaded water, the more he warmed up. All that mattered was that he was surrounded by water, and a beautiful girl with her sister stood waiting to be impressed. Aaron looked back at them, smiled broadly, and began swimming toward the red hat floating in the middle of the lake.
Unless his imagination fooled him, the sisters were actually cheering him on. Aaron snatched the hat, then turned to swim back to shore. He climbed out of the lake with his clothes hanging in wet bags and his hair dripping nonstop into his face. He shivered so hard his teeth clanked together.
"Got it," he said, proudly presenting the hat.
Jessica thanked him and laughed. Haley bundled her own coat around him. Aaron felt so happy to have some very real friends who didn't mind when he made a total fool of himself.
In all honesty, if he had known how cold the water really was, he probably wouldn't have submerged himself so eagerly. But it was worth it anyway.
Aaron opened his eyes. The lake was gone. The Brooks were gone. The cold walls and gray ceiling of the basement had blocked them out. Pulled from his thoughts, Aaron remembered his current predicament and sighed. What wouldn't he give to be swimming free right now, even if he got hypothermia.
He tried to estimate the length of his confinement. How soon until Mother's anger simmered down and she gave him a second chance? Judging by her enraged mood swings yesterday, he guessed it would be a while. Maybe another hour or two. He could survive that, right?
— — —
12:00 PM — I've never known it was possible to be so hungry. I can smell potato soup cooking upstairs. I hope she'll forgive me soon. Surely she'll come down any minute, ready to listen to my side and offer me food. Real food. She'll come soon, I'm sure.
How could he think she would be so forgiving? He did everything wrong. He probably deserved to starve in her basement.
It was easy to think back and fixate on only one common memory: the sharp smack of leather or cord and the shocks of radiating hot pain, brought on by his own idiocies. Aaron winced. It hurt right now. He was supposed to be regularly treating his wounds, but he had no ointment, no nurse, and no way to check them. Maybe if he wasn't such a rabble-rouser, he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.
He used to struggle a lot more when she came at him. He would hold his arms out straight in front of him, keeping her at bay, until she kicked him back into the wall and he had nowhere else to go. He grabbed her sleeve sometimes, or her shoulder, trying to hold her back. Still, she always ended up slamming him onto the floor, right where she wanted him. Though he scooted across the floor in an arc, she maintained a firm grip on his hair and still managed to catch up with the rest of him. Usually he lost a sock in the process of trying to crawl away, and his shirt got pulled up or twisted around against the carpet as they grappled. The harder he struggled, the more violent Mother became.
It didn't take long for his struggles to cease as he accepted his fate. He had nothing left to do but protect his chest and head, and maybe extend one hand in a vain attempt to ward off the blows. Mother had him right where she wanted him. She always did. Resisting never ended well.
So why did he keep resisting her? Why couldn't he just accept her correction and get on with his life? If he hadn't insisted on fighting back, he would be getting lunch now.
Aaron sat hunched on the floor, hugging his knees. A thousand self-deprecating thoughts swirled around his head. Why was he such an idiot?
Wait. Aaron, what are you thinking? You know why you fought back. You did it to protect Sean!
Aaron took a deep breath. When he allowed himself to follow a train of guilty thoughts, he started to lose hope and forget his purpose. He had to force himself to stop thinking that way. Getting fed was not worth letting Charles take Sean away, he reminded himself.
Desperate to distract himself, Aaron got up and began looking through the boxes of his father's possessions that he had stored away beside the laundry machines. He found full notebooks, photo albums, and items from the war, including Dad's old metal-bound Army Bible. Aaron opened the book to Psalm 140 and felt calmed as he read the relatable prayer for deliverance from violent evildoers.
— — —
8:00 PM — Something's wrong. Sean isn't here, and I can't be sure he's getting put to bed. Where's the baby? I need to feed him, rock him, lay him down for the night. If I don't do it, I don't know if anybody will!
After pacing uselessly for a while, Aaron felt the exhaustion take hold. But when he lay down on his side, he could not relax. He kept thinking about what he would do as soon as he got out of here.
First he would leap for joy and kiss the sky. Then he would lift Sean out of his crib and keep anybody from taking him. He would have a plan this time, a plan to take the baby far from harm. He would take him to the bus depot downtown, beg for a ticket from compassionate strangers, ride into Texas where he would get a job and save up enough to purchase a plane ticket, then fly into Canada where he would hide out with the baby until he found a ship to stowaway on, after which he would start a new life off the grid in Iceland.
A perfect plan.
Aaron scoffed at himself. Who was he kidding?
He grew tired of gazing at cracks in the wall and rusty pipes bound here and there with tape. He began reading one of his dad's handwritten memoirs, amazed by the colorful descriptions of the Army regiment, the base in Vietnam, and the vivid battles that filled the dark jungles with casualties. He imagined his father telling him these stories, and he finally began to get comfortable.
It was almost bedtime. Aaron would have told Sean a story he hadn't heard before, one about his father entering a wrestling match, realizing he would lose, and putting on a good show anyway. It was a good story.
Aaron went to sleep humming dissonantly. He couldn't help it. The pain was starting to take hold of his mind.
— — —
3:00 AM — Sean is crying. I can hear him clearly, even here. I need to get him. But when I get up, I double over and fall on my face. My insides hurt so much. Someone's taking a fireman's axe to my midsection, hacking away. I can't go back to sleep with pain like this.
Aaron's dreams the rest of the night were discolored, distorted, and frightening.
— — —
6:00 AM — I can smell porridge from here. I have to ignore the pain so I can clean myself up. Run my head under the faucet. Scrub myself with the crumbling soap bar. Change out of these rags. I found some semi-clean clothes balled up in the washing machine, still soaking, so I hung them on a shelf to dry. This shirt is missing a button. Oh, two buttons. She won't notice, I'll bet. Now I've gotta comb my hair, with my fingers, I guess. I can't look like a slob—or an urchin—when she comes to get me. She'll see that I'm willing to be her obedient son now. I don't regret what I did for Sean, but I have to make her believe I am truly penitent. It's the only way I might get out of here.
Now that he was clean and dressed, Aaron sat on a box and waited. He pictured the basement door opening, Mom walking down into the dimly lit tomb, and three beautiful words escaping her lips: I forgive you.
He waited. An hour passed.
He quietly recited a set of rules Mom had written for him when he was seven: Mommy's Rules for Good Little Boys. "Rule #1: Listen to your mother. Rule #2: Obey your mother. Rule #3: Clean up your own messes. Rule #4..."
If he followed every rule, only then would he be good enough for her. Or had she forgotten her own orders?
Aaron couldn't remember much past Rule #12, so he stopped reciting. He leaned against the wall beside the steps and began tapping on a copper pipe. "Please let me out," he called. "Mom, I'm sorry! You have to forgive me."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Maybe she would get so annoyed she would let him out just to make him stop. But Aaron didn't hear even a hint of movement from anybody upstairs.
"Are you up there? Are you listening? Mom? I'm sorry!"
He took a deep breath to dissipate the panic that threatened to choke him. He tapped harder on the pipe.
"I'm still here! Don't forget me!"
More time passed without the slightest response. Aaron slammed his fists into the walls.
"Let me out, you monster!"
He could only beat the wall for a minute before the sides of his hands ached too much. He hung his head and ran his hands through his dark hair. Once he finally collected himself, he returned to tapping on the pipe.
12:00 PM. He was still tapping on the pipe. Now he was hoarse.
He raised his face toward the ceiling and blinked back tears. "Mommy... please."
She didn't hear. She didn't care. No rules could appease her, no amount of obedience could make her listen. There was nothing Aaron could do.
Resigned, he started humming the song that used to be Mother's favorite: "Bridge Over Troubled Water." She used to sing that song while she made his dinner, but he hadn't heard it in years. He couldn't even remember the words.
— — —
9:00 PM — I don't know if I can stand unsupported, but I want to see the stars tonight. The smells of fast food leak through the vent, and I want to get far away from it so I don't feel like throwing up from hunger. As I decide how to sneak a peek at the stars, I'm not too worried about getting out of here. She'll come and get me soon. She has to.
Aaron climbed on top of a box, leaned against the wall, and peered through the glass over the top of the board that had been wedged into the window well. He could barely make out a corner of the sky.
"Look at the stars, Aaron."
He reached out and tried to grab one, but his tiny hand came back empty.
Mother hugged him in her lap. "My love for you is bigger than the whole sky."
He strained his neck trying to see every corner of the deep, sparkling canvas. Mother's head blocked out a part of his view. He smiled up at her.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... I love you so much."
Aaron stared at the stars, wondering if the sky ever ended.
The tiny corner that was visible looked so beautiful, but so far away. Aaron soon turned away from it. It was again time for bed, and his surroundings still hadn't changed.
Mother used to make him blow his nose before bed. Aaron used to wonder why. Didn't she know that nose-picking made for an excellent pastime when his preschooler self had nothing else to do but gaze at the shadows in his room?
The point was, she wouldn't let him go to bed unless he had forcefully emptied his nose into the tissue she cupped over his face. It was one of his daily rituals, and somehow it made her happy. So did washing his face, brushing his teeth, and cleaning his room. He was sure to earn a hug, at very least, if he cleaned himself up and put away every toy. She might even give him a cookie if he did a good job.
Aaron knelt in front of the faucet that poked out of the wall in the cupboard-like bathroom in the corner. He had been gnawing on a rough strip of cloth that might have once been a sock, just to occupy his teeth and maybe deceive his hunger into thinking it was not forgotten. Now he reluctantly set the soggy rag aside and rinsed the threads from his teeth. He splashed some cold water on his face and rubbed away sweat with his fingertips. His forehead felt extra warm, and he felt more tired than usual, but he continued his task until he was sure his teeth and face were spotless.
Aaron then staggered back to the middle of the basement and crouched to pick up some scattered rags and papers. He put the items away, stacked books, boxed photos. Soon everything was in place.
Finally, he blew his nose on a scrap of newspaper. He wadded up the scrap and dropped it on top of an already overflowing trash can, then surveyed the room for anything out of place. Now he and his room were all clean, ready for bed.
He laid out another layer of rags on the floor by the washing machine and lay down on his side with his knees brought up to his chest. The cold hurt almost as much as the hunger, so he pulled a ragged T-shirt and a few torn squares of fabric over his arms and shoulder. He shivered as he clenched fistfulls of cloth under his chin. His stomach felt like a thin rag being wrung out so tightly, almost to the point of tearing. His thoughts were fuzzy. Despite the cold, his face and back were burning up. At least he had done everything he was supposed to do. That much was in his control.
"I put everything away, Mommy, and I blew my nose."
"Did you wash your face? Behind your ears too?"
"Yep! And I cleaned my teeth. See?"
"Then I don't suppose you want this snack before bed..."
"Daddy says you spoil me."
"Then don't tell him. Here, eat up quickly."
Aaron reached for the cookie, or banana, or fig newton, or whatever delicacy his mother felt kind enough to offer after all his hard work. His hand closed on thin air. He stared, confused, in too much pain to comprehend the disappearance of his imaginings. If he reached far enough, if he concentrated hard enough, he would find something to eat. Anything.
He eventually passed out with his knuckles in his mouth.
— — —
1:00 AM — AAUGH!
Aaron awoke suddenly to a sharp, pinching sensation on his toe. His right shoe had a gaping hole where the sole no longer met the leather, and his exposed toes had gotten used to feeling every bit of the elements. But this was different. This was... wrong.
Reflexively, he kicked his foot against the pinching. He felt his heel connect with something soft. He heard a faint squeal, a light thud, and a quick scamper of tiny nails. He sat up and reached for his foot, feeling a sense of dread that something living had tried to nibble on him.
He reached for the flashlight beside the rags and shone the beam around the floor. His eyes didn't adjust at first, and they were still foggy from sleep. But he noticed when the light reflected off a pair of tiny, beady eyes, and a little ball of fur scrambled out of view, swinging a whiplike tail behind it. Aaron tried not to retch. He could still feel the rat's incisors against his toe.
Frantic, Aaron gathered up his rags and climbed on top of the washing machine. There he sat the rest of the night, shaking from coldness and exhaustion, and aiming a flashlight into the shadows every now and then to watch for a second wave of attackers.
He began to feel miserable about losing the rat. Though it probably carried a million diseases and wanted to snack on him, he wished he had been fast enough to catch it. He would have devoured it like a chicken drumstick, not caring about anything besides FOOD!
But he was being unrealistic. He was too tired, too weak to actually make a successfully hunt. He had been reduced to a quivering piece of wounded prey, easy game for every hungry force. He didn't even have the strength to overpower a mere rat, so he had no choice but to huddle defensively out of reach. When he finally fell back asleep with his chin to his chest and his forehead on his knees, his dreams made him feel even sicker.
— — —
7:00 AM — I'm thinking about chicken pot pie. Corn dogs smothered with ketchup. Cheesy, sauce-soaked lasagna. Greasy chicken legs by the bucket. I can barely breathe.
She's not coming back, is she?
Aaron spent much of the morning clutching his stomach on the floor. His chin rested on the concrete, and he occasionally reached out to roll a glass marble back and forth in front of his face. He was drooling.
Get up, Aaron. Move around. You're not dead yet.
Everything shook as he stood. His vision reeled, and he caught himself on a metal shelf loaded with Christmas decorations. Where did these come from? Haven't seen them in ages... Is this wreath made from real leaves? Can I eat them?
Aaron bent forward to spit out the fake pine needles made of green plastic. His mouth tasted sour and angry, like his stomach felt. Desperate. Resentful. Unfathomably hungry.
But now another pain was forcing its way to the front of his consciousness. Every wound he had borne announced itself loudly and fiercely. Nothing seemed to be healing. Instead, his wounds felt sore and very warm. Some hurt more than they did when he received them.
Aaron stumbled to the closet-sized bathroom in the corner. He looked at his pale reflection in the stained square of glass above the basin-less faucet that dripped over a rusty drain on the floor. He looked like he belonged in a morgue.
Aaron raised his shirt, turned around, and peered over his shoulder at the reflection of his back. Every wound—there were too many to count—looked fiery red and inflamed. One long, swollen red cut spanning from the top of his right shoulder to the middle of his spine bothered him the most. He could feel it no matter how little he moved. This was surrounded by more raised marks and red lines than a tiger's stripes. All of this chimed in to create a seething chorus of red-hot pain.
Seeing the damage made it hurt even more. It looked and felt so terrible, Aaron suddenly wanted to cry. But his eyes were too dry.
What could he do about a thousand infections? How could he survive with no food, no warmth, and no treatment?
Living was a gamble now. Aaron decided to make the most of his last days on Earth. He returned to the boxes beside the machines and set out to read every one of his dad's memoirs, stories, and essays. Inspired by the eloquent writing, Aaron took a scrap of brown paper from the trash and began writing his last thoughts with a stub of charcoal. He wrote about his love for Haley, his concerns for Sean, and his longing to see his father again. When he had addressed everything important, he began writing about crime itself and how much he wished he could do something to fight it. When he ran out of thoughts to write, he relaxed and read Psalm 141.
— — —
1:00 PM — Miraculously, I can sit up straight now without pain. My best guess is that my stomach forgot what food is like and stopped aching for more. The pain is more like a knotted, heavy lump now. My injuries, however, hurt more than I ever thought possible.
How did the temperature change so much? Aaron wondered as he stood panting against the washing machine. Both hands braced himself on the smooth white machine, but now his palms felt slippery. Aaron withdrew his hands and saw that he had left sweaty handprints on the machine. He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans, but they felt as hot as before. His forehead burned too. Aaron wiped it with his sleeve.
Somehow, he didn't know how, the temperature in the basement had rocketed upward into a very painful zone of discomfort. Aaron felt so hot, he couldn't sit still. It was like sitting in an oven. Convection bake. Highest settings.
Now the air wouldn't move. The air was like a solid block molded around his slumped body. He used every muscle in his chest, and his arms, to pull in a single gasp of air.
Open... window...
Aaron found a metal can of nails and after several weary blows, cracked the glass in the lower corner of the window. He stood on a box and sucked in the fresh air, but he still felt much too hot.
In a matter of hours, the room had turned deathly cold. It was as if every particle of air in the basement gradually froze, and Aaron had to breathe invisible ice crystals. He patted his face, trying to warm it. He couldn't even feel his thin cheeks now that his fingers had become numb with cold.
Aaron put his grimy fingers inside his mouth until some feeling returned. He pulled his arms out of his sleeves and crossed them over his chest underneath his shirt. His arms felt like cold water across his body. He curled himself in half, chin to his knees, and then pulled his collar up over his face. If he stopped moving, he feared he might freeze to death. But moving hurt more than anything; the slightest twitch reminded him of every hot, stinging wound on his body.
Most uncomfortable of all, Aaron again broken into a heavy sweat despite the cold. He shivered violently, but at the same time his sweat soaked his shirt. He felt so sick he wanted to just throw up, and then maybe sleep for a year.
— — —
EVENING — The numbers on the clock no longer make sense. I can't focus on something so high on the wall for so long. My eyes blur up and my head droops. I don't know why I've been so tired all day.
Aaron fought to remain sitting on a wooden crate. His head swayed a little and his limbs felt like dead, heavy branches. He struggled to read Psalm 142, but the words started blurring.
He felt a fever in his head and a fire in his back. Between the two, and with the added discomfort of his hollow gut, he could barely form a coherent thought.
That's just what Mom wants. She wants me to lose my mind.
So Aaron forced himself to focus. He tried to remember who he was and what had happened.
"My name is Aaron Ellis Hotchner," he muttered, as much to remind himself as to keep his brain active. "My brother's name is Sean. I'm going to grow up and be a prosecutor. My dad was a prosecutor..."
My dad. Where is he now?
Mind floating on a high fever, Aaron quietly began singing his father's favorite song under his breath: "First to fight for the right, and to build the Nation's might..." He leaned forward to cough dryly into his sleeve. "... and the Army goes rolling along."
He passed out, falling from his perch on the crate and landing on his side in the rags.
— — —
MORNING? — Time is blending together. The lighting never changes. I feel as numb and hollow as before, and I don't know if minutes or years have passed.
Aaron turned over to his other side and groaned. The thought that he was really facing the end knocked on his skull. He couldn't sit up without his head strongly spinning and nausea sweeping his insides.
I'm going to survive this. I'll just rest a little... and I'll be fine.
He no longer believed himself. His wounds felt like scalding irons. His face would not stop sweating. He shook from the cold, but he felt too hot to cover himself. He wiped his face with a rag every now and then, but even that simple action ceased when the rag started to feel like a twenty pound weight. Now he just lay there, hands curled under his face, watching spots and swirls of light pop around the cloudy room.
I'm just resting. Just resting.
— — —
I don't know what time it is or where I am or why I'm here.
Aaron finished reading Psalm 143 and 144 through heavy, blurry eyes. Unable to go on, he wrapped his arms around the book in a metal case and hugged it to his chest. He lay there on his side against the far wall, taking each breath in long, shaky drags.
He could have had a great life with Haley. He tried to put together in his mind what the wedding would look like. Churchbells, a choir singing like angels, rose petals scattered down the aisle. Haley walking toward him in a dress so clean and white it nearly glowed. Haley's parents crying. The warm, slender hands resting in Aaron's. Shining, golden rings on their fingers. The sweet, honey bliss of Haley's soft lips on his. To hold and to keep, in sickness and in health... Till death do we part.
A pretty little house, like an old cottage, tucked away in Virginia's most peaceful countryside. Knee-high children running wild. What were their names? There were so many possibilities.
Grandkids, Thanksgiving visits, quiet afternoons beside the clock. The comfort of Haley's presence, even as his clock wound down and his breath shortened. Flying peacefully away in his sleep, content, having lived a full and wonderful life. What could have been, what could have been.
I think I'm ready to go now.
— — —
Everything is dark. I can't get up. But I'm no longer afraid. I feel so peaceful. I've been thinking about Heaven. It's the only thought I can hold onto that still makes sense. I feel no pain. I feel happy. So happy. It's almost over, and soon I'll be with my Savior. I'm ready to go. I'm ready to leave this life behind.
Will there be singing? Will there be angels and magnificent beauty? And my father. Will he be there? I can hardly wait. Take me away from this misery. Carry me to see the glory of the King's throne. I'm done here...
What's that? Is someone speaking to me?
Light is trying to break through my eyelids. I'm squinting. There's glorious white light filling my face. It's soft and sweet, and it's whispering to me:
"Wait! It's not your time to go. You have more to do here."
Is that you, God? What do you want me to do?
I try to keep listening, and suddenly I feel a hand shaking my shoulder, shaking me out of the fog. Another hand lifts my face, and I can barely make out the shape of a person kneeling beside me. My dreams turn to vapor. I feel the harsh world again. And these comforting hands. Suddenly the message is clear:
Wake up and keep fighting.
—-
If you've read "Curtain Call," you know what happens. Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! :D