10-30-2020, 05:57 PM
The old car puttered along. Slowing to a stop as the driver looked out over the pristine
grounds of a lovely home. Memories came flooding back. Not so much of this place but
of the person it belonged to.
The driver: Orville. The home: Gail's. At least when she was among the living.
Sitting there in reverent silence, Orville felt a tear cascading down his worn face.
He revved the engine and headed to the back entry of the home. He needed closure.
Parking his junker off the back path in a grove of oak trees, he cautiously walked the
well-trodden dirt trail that led up to the backyard of Gail's former residence. Throttled from
heartbreak, woozy from the pills, he staggered steadily on until reaching the back patio doors.
She never locked them. It was always in anticipation of an unannounced visit from him.
He looked around before entering, checking the coast was clear. How terrible it would be
to be found entering the home of a dead woman. Orville slid inside and closed the doors
behind him.
On the kitchen countertop sat the tray holding the partially-filled glasses of lemonade and remnants
of shortbread cookies Gail served that day. The ones he didn't devour. More tears began falling.
Stomach knotting. This drug wasn't helping anything yet.
"Why did I come here?" he thought as he looked around the room.
He continued onward to the hallway. Standing there, looking at the fine curved staircase extending
upwards, he knew he had to do it. Climbing those stairs felt like marching to his own death. But he'd
come this far. No time for half measures now.
The second floor was just as beautiful as the first. He never saw the upstairs. His business there
was always conducted and concluded in the kitchen. This was all new to him.
He stood shaking. Seeing it there, at the end of the hallway. Her bedroom. He dared not.
Tears now flooding, his body convulsing. Would this be the closure he so desperately desired?
The room was fresh and there was an abundance of daylight shining through the tall windows.
Her bed was neatly made. Undoubtedly due to her always sleeping on the living room couch.
Orville knelt beside the bed. Running his hand along the fluffy, quilted comforter. He could hear
her saying it now... "Keep your filthy mitts off my nice clean things you rogue!" as an errant laugh
fought its way through his torment.
He looked over at her nightstand. It was all but bare, save for an unplugged alarm clock. He felt
the pull. It was clawing its way out of him. Could he bear it? Even a quick glance? In for a penny,
in for a pound his grandfather always said. Orville then very carefully opened the top drawer.
There was nothing inside to raise much suspicion. But sitting on top was an address book, or diary.
His eyes danced all over it for several seconds before touching it. The cold leather binding sent
a shot of electricity into his fingers. So much so that he pulled away. Gathering the courage, he
reached inside to grab hold and remove it.
He couldn't. He just couldn't. But he did! His heart was fluttering a mile a minute. Drug or no, he
was red-lining. And in that moment he cracked the book open. Somewhere in the middle, amidst
a page full of scribbling. His eyes catching a word very familiar to him.
It was his name.
grounds of a lovely home. Memories came flooding back. Not so much of this place but
of the person it belonged to.
The driver: Orville. The home: Gail's. At least when she was among the living.
Sitting there in reverent silence, Orville felt a tear cascading down his worn face.
He revved the engine and headed to the back entry of the home. He needed closure.
Parking his junker off the back path in a grove of oak trees, he cautiously walked the
well-trodden dirt trail that led up to the backyard of Gail's former residence. Throttled from
heartbreak, woozy from the pills, he staggered steadily on until reaching the back patio doors.
She never locked them. It was always in anticipation of an unannounced visit from him.
He looked around before entering, checking the coast was clear. How terrible it would be
to be found entering the home of a dead woman. Orville slid inside and closed the doors
behind him.
On the kitchen countertop sat the tray holding the partially-filled glasses of lemonade and remnants
of shortbread cookies Gail served that day. The ones he didn't devour. More tears began falling.
Stomach knotting. This drug wasn't helping anything yet.
"Why did I come here?" he thought as he looked around the room.
He continued onward to the hallway. Standing there, looking at the fine curved staircase extending
upwards, he knew he had to do it. Climbing those stairs felt like marching to his own death. But he'd
come this far. No time for half measures now.
The second floor was just as beautiful as the first. He never saw the upstairs. His business there
was always conducted and concluded in the kitchen. This was all new to him.
He stood shaking. Seeing it there, at the end of the hallway. Her bedroom. He dared not.
Tears now flooding, his body convulsing. Would this be the closure he so desperately desired?
The room was fresh and there was an abundance of daylight shining through the tall windows.
Her bed was neatly made. Undoubtedly due to her always sleeping on the living room couch.
Orville knelt beside the bed. Running his hand along the fluffy, quilted comforter. He could hear
her saying it now... "Keep your filthy mitts off my nice clean things you rogue!" as an errant laugh
fought its way through his torment.
He looked over at her nightstand. It was all but bare, save for an unplugged alarm clock. He felt
the pull. It was clawing its way out of him. Could he bear it? Even a quick glance? In for a penny,
in for a pound his grandfather always said. Orville then very carefully opened the top drawer.
There was nothing inside to raise much suspicion. But sitting on top was an address book, or diary.
His eyes danced all over it for several seconds before touching it. The cold leather binding sent
a shot of electricity into his fingers. So much so that he pulled away. Gathering the courage, he
reached inside to grab hold and remove it.
He couldn't. He just couldn't. But he did! His heart was fluttering a mile a minute. Drug or no, he
was red-lining. And in that moment he cracked the book open. Somewhere in the middle, amidst
a page full of scribbling. His eyes catching a word very familiar to him.
It was his name.
