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A Long Distance Relationship by Lelia Thomas

The icy fingers of winter squeezed tight around her neck, drawing what seemed to be her last drop of warmth. She twisted beneath the quilts, contorting into the most uncomfortable position she could find. The pain at least made her feel alive.

In a daze, she looked out the bedroom window. Water slid gracefully down the many icicles, flashing tiny sparkles in the pale-purple light before dawn. Cold, cold… Spring was soon, but she felt no warmth for it.

She missed him. His scent was in the pillow, the pillow her head was pressed against. She hadn’t washed the sheets, hadn’t changed a thing anywhere in the house. How could she? He might come back. She had always thought he would leave someday–find something better, an upgrade to go with the cobalt convertible that was part of his midlife crisis.

Still, he might come back.

Sometimes she thought she heard his voice.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, knowing he should not expect an answer at this point. But hoping, always goddamn hoping. What had happened to them? He watched from the doorway, confused and disenchanted. Her silence was unbearable, almost as hard as the bones that now showed clearly beneath her skin. She hadn’t eaten for weeks, hadn’t spoken–had only lain there, decaying into a pale paper crane of a woman.

One morning, she had simply stopped speaking to him. She didn’t acknowledge his presence. Her eyes were dull and distant when she stared at his face. Was this about the car?

“Talk to me.”

The blankets were not enough. The chatter of her teeth was muffled by the pillow.

She wept.

Tears again. So many tears. What the hell was wrong? He couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t. He wanted it to work out, but he was tired of trying. The frustration, coupled with the close confinement of the white-walled rooms of their new home, had drained him of all energy.

Numbness settled into his mind, muddling his thoughts. Maybe they were both losing their minds. Nothing was as easy as when they’d been younger. He wanted to be eighteen again, to drive his dad’s truck at an ungodly speed.

The sun rose now, perhaps for the first time in weeks, cutting through the ice and winter mist like a sculptor’s pick. There was still a speck of hope. He chose to believe that.

He opened the door, bit back the gasp that rose to his throat when the frozen wind hit him face on, and walked outside.

The cold welcomed his emptiness like an old friend.

She jerked when she heard the loud crack. Curious, she dried her eyes and sat up in bed. Enough light showed through the windows that she could see well enough, and so she carefully got up on weak legs. Goosebumps appeared on her skin almost immediately, but she hardly noticed them. She was always cold these days.

It was the door. Swinging open on its hinges, banging rhythmically against the wall. Ice melted off of it and onto the floor.

“You came back,” she said, her voice hardly above a whisper.

But he wasn’t in the room. He had left again. Without a second thought, she walked out into the cold.

There were no tracks to follow, but she knew where he went on his early morning walks.

She ran.

He sat on the memorial park bench. Cold air sifted through his nostrils, chilling his lungs, seemingly coming out even colder than when he breathed it in.

Against the white snow and the black ice of the country road, the apple red ‘Stop’ sign stood out brightly. It leaned far to the side in a way he had never seen it. Some drunken fool probably slammed into it again.

Black skid marks, knot-like, on the asphalt.

The bench was empty, and she frowned.

He was nowhere in sight. The memorial, with its frozen white rose bushes, was silent. The lone cross in its centre seemed to mock her. “We keep our secrets,” it seemed to whisper.

Perhaps it was the wren that made her glance down. Outside of a crow, it was the first bird she had seen in three months. He pecked on a gravestone.

He noticed she was only wearing a t-shirt when she came for him. Her bare feet were caked in snow, her toes glaringly blue. What was she thinking? He got up to put his jacket over her shoulders.

Then he saw.

Her name was chiselled in stone. Cold. His was there as well, crisply summing up his life with a beginning and ending date. Until now, it had never seemed so impersonal.

“At least you’re not mad about the car.” And he laughed grimly. He knew she wouldn’t answer. He didn’t even hope.

She thought she felt something take her hand. It was cold, too.

Details

This short story was my submission for my 750-word piece in fiction writing class. It’s 811 words… It also received a distinction (basically a B), and I’m very happy with that, considering my teacher told us he rarely gives anything above passes (D) or credits (C).

In terms of the story itself, I wanted something that toyed with the paranormal but in a way that I felt was new or different. We’ve seen plenty of fiction where individuals were not aware of their own death, or where the living were not aware of the dead. I don’t think, however, that I’ve ever read anything where two people were dead, and neither realized it about themselves or the other person. (It probably exists; I’ve just not read it!)

This can be read in two ways. Literally, and therefore as a paranormal fantasy, or metaphorically, through the title, as a long distance relationship that slowly dies. For the record, I wrote it with the literal in mind, but a few who have read it have taken it metaphorically. I’d love to hear your feelings about this piece!