After

Marcus

My mantra, those words have become. I am still here. I am still here.

It is my hope.

It is my sanity.

It is, most simply, a plea.

For her.

For what was and for what will never be.

For what was never given a chance.

The air in the room is stale. All I have are my own thoughts, my own miserable company.

The radio sits on the table beside the bed, unused. Possessed by a memory, I reach over, turn it on. All that meets my ears are tears; the soft, horrible sounds of misery and pain. I switch it off and turn my face into the sheets. It is so dark that I do not know whether my eyes are open or closed, or whether the distinction matters anymore. I decide that it does not and leave my eyes as they are.

I am still here, I scream into the dark.

But no one is there to hear me.