I watch as you linger at the western edge of the field. You raise a hand. Pop. Then blackness.
It’s the sound we hear in the womb. It’s a rush of blood, the beating of a heart, a filling and compressing of lungs. It’s the comforting hush of a parent. It’s the rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops. It’s the breaking of waves or the rustling of heather in a summer breeze.
It’s your bittersweet echo in my memory. It’s the aroma of coffee as we lie together. It’s the way you trace your fingertip around the rim in leisurely loops. It’s the elegant arc of your back as you stretch waking muscles. It’s the flutter of a turning page. It’s your warm breath teasing my neck. It’s the swish of bedsheets. It’s your body pouring through my hands like liquid. It’s a hidden storm whispering among the boughs.
It’s faded interconnecting rings on the nightstand from where you’d place your cup. It’s the ebb of your scent on the covers. It’s your glasses resting on an unfinished book. It’s finding the note you’d written, tucked within its pages. It’s my mother’s soothing touch as I shatter in her arms. It’s the hollow crackle of car tires departing. It’s hands searching the darkness. It’s remembering how to eat, how to swallow, how to breathe.
It’s the crunch of my footsteps across the field. It’s the way you’re strewn across the soil like a broken doll. It’s your awkward angles and lines. It’s my mouth pressed against the red clay of your lips. It’s hands tilling the earth for something to ground me. It’s a rush of blood. It’s the beating of a heart. It’s a compressing of lungs. It’s a soft breeze rustling the heather, the gun still warm in your hand.
Charles Prelle is a London based writer and playwright. His short fiction can be found in Retreat West, Ellipsis Zine, Idle Ink, Storgy and Reflex Press among others. He has also been listed in various flash competitions and published anthologies. Find him on Twitter @CharlesPrelle or on his website www.cprellewriter.wordpress.com