It was an autumn night.
Horice felt the imprints of the cold nipping at her back, the hardwood floors pressing onto her breast and abdomen—when she opened her eyes to the gloomy dawn peering at her from the open doors of her balcony.
Breathing in the dust and faint scent of wood, it was like a comfort knowing the hardness of the floor that made her body ache since it was a testament to life. The familiarity of the bed will only make her forget.
She'd just passed out again, for the fourth time that week which wasn't a good thing.
Slowly, Horice sat up, with bones protesting and muscles sore from the long exposure.
Her gaze lingered on the cityscape, finding solace in the somber beauty of the scene.
The cold dawn mirrored the numbness in her heart, the balcony offering a solitary stage for her silent struggles. The moon witnessed her pain in stoic silence, while the tree on the sidewalk, resilient against the urban backdrop seemed to mock her current state.
"Fuck." Horice' hand went to the side of her head when the pain started.
Somehow, she knew she wouldn't be able to get back to work today. She was feeling unwell, not taking care of herself as much ever since that day.
Horizon announcing the death of Finn sounded like a distant echo in her mind.
She reached for the crumpled pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, extracting one as if the stick would help. The lighter's flame flickered as she took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that danced with the morning air.
The room felt like a mausoleum of memories, each corner echoing with the haunting remnants of a life that slipped away. Horice traced the patterns of the balcony's wrought iron railing mindlessly. The city below seemed to stir with indifferent apathy.
As the pain in her head pulsated, she grappled with the fragments of the night before. The weight of grief settled on her shoulders like an unwelcome companion. "How many more nights," she wondered, her voice a mere whisper in the stillness.
With a resigned sigh, she leaned against the balcony's edge, fixating on the fractured beauty of the world beyond.
Horice stared at the half-burnt cigarette between her fingers, its ember slowly dying out in the cold. The room remained in a sepulchral silence, broken only by the distant hum of the city waking up. She crushed the cigarette on the railing, watching as the black residue dissipated in the air.
It was getting too cold to be outside.
In the muted light, she traced the outline of Finn's photograph on the dresser—a smile captured in happier times. A shard of guilt pierced through her numbness. The balcony doors creaked as a gust of wind entered, carrying with it the scent of impending rain.
A sudden realization struck, and Horice, driven by a desperate need for connection, fumbled for her phone. The screen illuminated her face in an eerie glow as she dialed a familiar number. The sound of each ring echoed in the hollow space of her apartment.
"Hello?" a voice answered on the other end, carrying a mix of concern and frustration.
"Wren," Horice's voice wavered, "I can't do this alone anymore."
The admission hung in the air, a bridge connecting two worlds of pain. Wren, her lifelong friend, offered solace through the phone. The words spilled out, a cathartic release that had long been suppressed. The skyline outside blurred as the first drops of rain began to fall, merging with the tears Horice couldn't hold back.
In the distance, thunder rumbled, an ominous harmony to the unraveling scene. As Wren's words of comfort enveloped her, Horice clung to the fragile lifeline, knowing that even in the storm of grief, she wasn't entirely alone.
YOU ARE READING
Dream
Romance... The aftermath of Finn's death was a revelation to Horice, the woman who had spent a significant portion of her life with him. While it seemed prudent to pick up the pieces and move on, Horice soon found herself searching for explanations for why...
