A short story by Cage Dunn.
Gone is the need to speak, the need to communicate. Gone is the way of interacting with people and things and machines and plastic and metal and garbage! Gone. Gone.
She felt like a separate being, not part of the whole, not part of anything. The noise washed over her as if she were a rock in the middle of a fast flowing stream, but the real person was inside that rock, protected and separate, alone and pounded upon by all the things she didn’t want to know about.
The doorbell rang, and she dutifully stood to open it and admit the next lying, duplicitous stranger who dared to say ‘I knew him once.’
None of them knew him; none of them understood why; none of them felt the truth of his disappearance from the world. None but her, and she wasn’t allowed to feel it – because she wasn’t on the ‘in’ side of it all.
The outsider may be allowed to open the door, share her personal space with them because he lived there too, once, but she wasn’t one of them. She was the outsider, the one who stole him from them, the one who deserved to suffer – but why did she have to make him die first?
She heard the words spoken in whispers, ‘Who’s going to dispute the will?’ or ‘Do you think she’ll fight the ruling if it comes out our way?’ or – the best of all when they discovered the fact ‘No will! That means she’ll get everything!’
Oh, no. She will not get everything. They didn’t know, did they? He had nothing. All he ever had was gone long before she met him, long before they realised he was involved with someone. He was desperate enough to seek her help, to ask her to hide his failure, to make it look as if the front were more than smoke and mirrors.
So, that was what she did, and she came to love him, and he loved her, and they had no money, and no assets except this house – her house, which she owned long before she met him. Provable, so they couldn’t get her house.
What a shock it would be for them to see him in the true light of letters and numbers on a page. No assets, no money, no career. A high flyer in their minds, but his books didn’t sell, he didn’t make any money, he lived the life they thought a famous person should live, but it was all on borrowed money – and time, as it turned out.
He was the best person to be a storyteller – his own life was his most fictional work.
Copyright 2017 Cage Dunn