Sparkling Embers
Sparkling Embers.
The telephone sat atop a spindly side table, silent. A silver button, the "dial" button, glinted in the light cast by a nearby lamp, as if it was winking at me, smirking at me, tormenting me. I looked away and instead gazed into the glass of the fire place. It was edged with a smokey black, and the smoldering orange within was blurred by it, lost in translation. Soon the flames would fall into a slumber, and the embers would nestle themselves into the bed of ash, deprived of oxygen. I sunk into the cushions, and pulled my blanket over me. My eyelids began to droop. He crossed my mind a few times.
Then my eyes flicked open, and observed the phone. He usually called every night. Although that wasn't true as of late. The past three nights, I hadn't heard a single thing from him. Worry tied my stomach in knots, tugging at the strings. It was almost as if I could feel the tangles within me. What had happened to him?
My heart leapt from my chest; suddenly the phone was back in action again, ringing loudly and calling for me to answer. I jumped up from my place, the weight lifted off my shoulders.
"Hello?"
Wrong number. I sighed heavily, placing the handset down on its stand. I traced my fingers over the smooth, silver buttons, each bearing their own number and selection of letters. Call him. No, I couldn't. I was bursting to though. Every ounce of my being wished to hear his voice again. A soft, well-spoken voice with deep undertones.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, picking up the handset once again, and giving in. I dialed his number one digit at a time. This was the eleventh time since Thursday, when he'd stopped contacting me. It had been seventy-two hours of emptiness... ironic, really, considering how full to the brim of stress and tears it had been. I felt dreadful, after our fight. I pushed dial, and waited patiently for the tone. His mother answered. She had a gentle, summery sort of voice. She was sweet and colourful. But she didn't know where he was. I could sense her own worry, laced in whispers between her words. He had left, she said, earlier that day, but had otherwise kept to his room. I sighed disappointedly. Just as the phone clicked back on its stand, I heard the front door open, close, and I rushed to see who it was. For a moment, I wanted to cry. For a moment, I wanted to laugh and smile and feel relieved. For a moment, I just stared shocked at him as he stood there in the dim hallway, in his drenched clothes from the persistent rain outside.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Really, I'm sorry."
"You haven't been answering my-"
"I'm sorry. I couldn't bare to hear or see you hurt again. I hid from it."
The rain battered the world outside, and we stood in the darkness. The sparkling embers became muffled by a cloak of ash. The knots unwound themselves, and at last I could breathe again.
Then my eyes flicked open, and observed the phone. He usually called every night. Although that wasn't true as of late. The past three nights, I hadn't heard a single thing from him. Worry tied my stomach in knots, tugging at the strings. It was almost as if I could feel the tangles within me. What had happened to him?
My heart leapt from my chest; suddenly the phone was back in action again, ringing loudly and calling for me to answer. I jumped up from my place, the weight lifted off my shoulders.
"Hello?"
Wrong number. I sighed heavily, placing the handset down on its stand. I traced my fingers over the smooth, silver buttons, each bearing their own number and selection of letters. Call him. No, I couldn't. I was bursting to though. Every ounce of my being wished to hear his voice again. A soft, well-spoken voice with deep undertones.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, picking up the handset once again, and giving in. I dialed his number one digit at a time. This was the eleventh time since Thursday, when he'd stopped contacting me. It had been seventy-two hours of emptiness... ironic, really, considering how full to the brim of stress and tears it had been. I felt dreadful, after our fight. I pushed dial, and waited patiently for the tone. His mother answered. She had a gentle, summery sort of voice. She was sweet and colourful. But she didn't know where he was. I could sense her own worry, laced in whispers between her words. He had left, she said, earlier that day, but had otherwise kept to his room. I sighed disappointedly. Just as the phone clicked back on its stand, I heard the front door open, close, and I rushed to see who it was. For a moment, I wanted to cry. For a moment, I wanted to laugh and smile and feel relieved. For a moment, I just stared shocked at him as he stood there in the dim hallway, in his drenched clothes from the persistent rain outside.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Really, I'm sorry."
"You haven't been answering my-"
"I'm sorry. I couldn't bare to hear or see you hurt again. I hid from it."
The rain battered the world outside, and we stood in the darkness. The sparkling embers became muffled by a cloak of ash. The knots unwound themselves, and at last I could breathe again.