Gone

I trace my fingers along the high points of his face, hoping to see his eyelids part and strike me with the irises of amber I love most. It’s the best good morning wish. He isn’t budging. I credit his deep slumber to his long nights at the office. He hasn’t had a weekend off in ages. I love the passion he has for his work, but surely it’s exhausting. His five o’clock shadow has evolved into scruff. His boss minds, however I have no complaints. 

Coming to our mountain home became a rarity once he was promoted for the third time, adding to the litany of responsibilities he had to manage. He would insist on bringing his work with us, but I prefer to enjoy our time here with no work interference. Needless to say, we are finally here after many failed plans and I couldn’t be any happier. I kiss his lips and leave him to rest. Perhaps he’ll wake to the scent of fresh morning coffee.

I slide out of bed and slip on my silk robe, followed by the fuzzy slippers he gifted to me for our eighth anniversary. It’s a silly tradition we began when the realization struck that every year we share together begins with the icy welcome of winter. I glance out of our balcony door curtains and see the sun peeking over the horizon, shining through the nearly bare trees of the forest below. The fir trees still stand, deep green with a dusting of snow, as the remaining night time fog awaits its transition into day time clouds. I open the door slightly, a threshold between our cozy home and frigid nature. A gust of freezing air rushes into our warm room, as if to escape itself, carrying the scent of pure pine. I inhale deeply and allow the blissful moment to penetrate my warm lungs. Notes from our harmonic assembly of windchimes dance their way into my ears from our small garden of winter flowers, in tune with the deep caw of winter birds traveling from the depths of the trees. I close the door as quietly as possible in an attempt to not wake him. I tiptoe my way out of the room, taking one last look at the handsome being sleeping soundly in our bed. I can’t help the gradual lift of the corners of my lips, as the sight of him is etched into my heart. 

I make my way down our stairs, passing the plethora of photos we have tastefully placed to display ourselves. College graduation, engagement, wedding, even buying this house. My favorite home. I continue down the hallway, passing a large vase of fresh flowers and embrace their floral scent. I finally reach the coffee pot in the kitchen and plug it in. The power light fails to illuminate. Most likely due to the lack of use for so long. Hot chocolate then. I grab a dusty pot from the collection we have hanging on hooks above our sink. I blow into it and watch the dust particles blast into the air, like sparkles, catching light from the rising sun. I turn the handle of the faucet and water begins to trickle out, a weak stream of pressure splattering softly. The pipes thud repeatedly and the water stops. I move the handles back and forth. Nothing. He’s already turned our water back on. It isn’t likely for the water system to not work. I make my way to the wall with the switches to each kitchen light. I flip each of them on and off. Nothing. Something isn’t right. I suppose I will have to wake him up.

I retrace my steps, making my way back to the bedroom. I skip across the kitchen floor and through the unlit hallway which begs for any rays from the sun. I reach the bottom of the steps and stop abruptly. I’ve caught myself in the reflection of a picture frame which houses a photo of my wedding day smile. My reflection does not resemble the photo. It is frightening. My hair is mangled, my skin is pale and my eyes appear to be sunken in. I immediately bring my hands to my face. No. My hands. They are rough and filthy, with grime caked beneath my chipped, uneven nails. I don’t understand.

I run up the steps, and suddenly my feet feel like blocks of ice, slapping the floor, frigid like the outside. My slippers have fallen off. I turn back to see an empty staircase. Where could they have gone? Confusion consumes me. I call out to my husband as I approach the top of the steps. Silence. Perhaps he’s sleeping deeply. I rush into our bedroom to wake him. Our bed has been abandoned. Our sheets look deteriorated as if feasted on by moths.

He isn’t there. 

I call out to him again and listen closely for his voice. The voice I know all too well. Silence. I begin to run frantically throughout each room of the house. The guest bedroom. Nothing. The theatre. Nothing. The bathroom. Nothing. I try to fight the urge to seek my reflection. I cave. I fill the mirror with my disgusting, gaunt face, I watch as tears leave my sunken eyes. I scream with every bit of air in my lungs. It’s happened again. I’ve reverted. Why am I here?

He’s gone.