Work Text:
I'm chewing the porridge slowly. Every single oat in the lukewarm mush seems to rub against my teeth the wrong way. I try to swallow, but the food is stuck in my cheeks and I suppress a gag trying to get the damned stuff out of my mouth.
I can't eat. I haven't for days.
I know I should, but nothing tastes good anymore.
Everything turns to sand or sawdust on my tongue and my hearts sinks as I realize I'm giving up on another meal again.
I put the spoon back in the (still full) bowl, and push my chair away from the table. The wooden legs scrape against the old, knot-riddled floor boards.
"I'm sorry, dear," I whisper as my knees creak into an upright position. "I'll try again tomorrow."
I leave the unfinished bowl of breakfast behind, not bothering to clean it up.
By the front door I find my worn rubber boots, and I pull them on (not without great effort). I remember when they were knew and they squeaked with every step. Now, the soles are so well worn they are like molded to my feet, and I can wear them for entire days of hard work without a single ache to speak of. Though I haven't in weeks, of course.
When I open the door, a mix of orange, golden, and auburn light fills the otherwise damp and dark room. The sunrise is always breathtaking this time of year, and I know I should feel something when I see the dawn of spring begin to thaw the cold earth—but all I feel is empty. Even the sun can't bring back the warmth that has seemingly left my cabin for good.
Closing the door (which also creaks, by the way) quickly behind me, I make a hasty turn towards the far end of my land. It shames me to see the state of it. Every field shows signs of neglect. Old crops that were never harvested, a full winter past. Bushes and weeds taking over my carefully placed stepping stones, moss leaving the rock slippery and unsafe. It seems impossible, but I can almost swear the forest line inches closer every day, slowly eating up the tilled earth.
I shrug away the guilt. I can't keep up with it anymore. Instead, I start walking. Soft dirt and hard gravel grinds beneath my boots with each step, and the sound blends comfortably with the careful whisper of the breeze around me and the melancholic songs of the birds in the trees up ahead.
By the time I make it through the modest forest and out on the other side, into my little sactuary, I am soaked with sweat. My shirt clings uncomfortably to my skin, rough cotton stretched against my chest. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, glad to have reached the clearing yet again.
"One of these days, I tell you…" I mutter as I shuffle towards the plot of cleared out grass.
The boulder serving as a humble headstone stands solid in front of me just like it did yesterday, and the day before. And every day since my world ended so abrubtly last fall.
I close the distance slowly. It feels more respectful this way. You never liked anyone barging into your space—anyone who knew you would tell you how easily frightened you were.
"Darling," I croak as I reach the space where the earth has been upended and the grass has not yet fully recovered. "I am back."
You do not answer. I knew you wouldn't but i feel disappointed anyway.
With another bout of great effort, I creak (it's all my joints at this point, not just my knees) into a kneeling position. There are already dents in the earth from where I have sat so many days before, and it feels familiar and warm—despite the dewey grass. I savor the feeling. It's hard to come by these days.
"I missed you," I say, even though I was here only yesterday. "Nights are difficult now, knowing you are out here by yourself."
I rub my hands together as a knot forms in my throat. The callouses in my palms are dry and rough, a stark contrast to how impossibly delicate your touch used to be.
A thought takes form in my mind, and I wonder if I might as well bring a sleeping bag out here, now that the weather seems to turn.
"I could stay out here with you, if that's alright? It would be cold, sure, but I'd get a better night's rest here than in that Yoba forsaken hut of a house."
A gust of wind whips through what little I have of hair (mostly my eyebrows and beard at this point), and a shiver runs down my spine.
"Sorry—," I say, straightening my back a little. "I know you don't like it when I speak like that."
I stay silent for a while, enjoying your potential company. I don't know what's on the other side, but being here brings me some comfort, and at least it feels closer to you than any other place in the Valley.
Besides, everywhere else just seems to bring back memories. A hearty laugh over the hum of chatter and music in the Saloon. A careful hand in mine on an unsteady path trailing up the mountain side. Long hair tickling the side of my cheek as you spin around, white dress and a crown of flowers shining in the bright sun.
A warm tear trickles down and pools in the corner of my mouth. I'd wipe it away, but I know more will come. They always do.
I thought it would slow down. The endless sorrow and yearning for your return.
It hasn't yet, and I'm losing hope that it ever will.
"I am hollow without you, my love."
I lay down, ignoring the protests of my aging body.
I don't get back up.