Sorrow Swallows My Screams

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Eight:

Zacky’s POV:

As I took my first step into Mrs Fletcher’s home, I knew that my previous observations that this house was nice were correct. The first room was the living room, and it was spacious and carpeted with a light cream coloured flooring. It was home to furniture that I know I would never be able to afford. The lounge was huge and leather, and matched the colour of the carpet. A wide-screen TV stood opposite the lounge, mounted on a mahogany cabinet that was lined with shelves and shelves of DVDs.

“Have a seat,” Mrs Fletcher said, gesturing towards said leather lounge. I obeyed her and sat down on the lounge, sinking deep down into its comfy cushions. Then, without a word, she disappeared into the next room, which I assumed to be the kitchen. For one terrified moment, I thought she might have run off to call the cops, but she returned a few minutes later carrying two cups of steaming tea in her hands.

“I hope you like tea,” she said, but it sounded dead, careless.

“It’s fine. Thank you.”

She passed me one of the cups. I took a grateful sip and felt the hot liquid scorch my lips, my tongue, my gums. I forced a smile nevertheless.

“Mrs Fletcher, I can’t imagine how bad you must feel…”

“No dear, I’m fine,” she replied, but her voice cracked, her tears flowed again. She drew her handkerchief to her face, wiped the tears away again. Her tears increased further, she sat down on the creamy lounge beside me, crying, crying, crying. She was violently shaking with her sobs. I didn’t know what to do. I reached over to her and patted her back gently, the only thing I could think to do. What she did then took me by surprise at first. She collapsed into me, flinging her arms around me, hugging me. Her head flopped to my shoulder. My shirt was soon soaked through with tears. I, myself, was in fact close to tears, seeing this woman’s immense pain.

We sat there for half an hour before Mrs Fletcher’s tears finally began to slow enough for her to speak again. “Who… who did you lose?” she asked, raising her head from my shoulder, looking through her bloodshot teary eyes deep into my own hazely-coloured orbs.

I was silent a moment before answering her. “Long story or short?” I finally said.

“Long,” she whispered.

“His name was Mikey Way,” I began. And by the time I’d finished the story - in full detail, right up until mine and Brian’s last physical encounter (not that I explained that in detail at all, just my mixed feelings about it) - we were both dissolved, lost in an ocean of our own tears. Thinking about our losses, we sat there crying for hours more.