A Walk Home

He glimpsed his weary reflection as he stepped off the elevator. He stopped to look at the muddled mirror of the elevator's walls. The long nights at his corporate job were catching up to him, as his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes demonstrated. He sighed and loosened his tie as he grabbed his coat and made his way out of the gray concrete building. 

The weekend was finally here.

Outside, the night air was calm and cold. Amidst the street lights, he could see the stars and bright full moon above if he squinted just right. "Ah, another full moon?," he pondered. He had lost count at how long there had been a full moon. "Maybe this is a sign of something good to come," he hoped aloud. 

Although the air was serene, the streets were bustling with people. It was Friday night, and the surrounding shops and restaurants had normal people out and about shopping, going on dates, having dinner, and truly enjoying their evening. Yet here he was once again, just wanting to be home after another long day.

He was not sure why he was in a hurry to get home.  There was nothing waiting for him there except cold leftover pizza and an even colder bed. Things had not been the same since his wife left a month ago. There was no warning. He had come home from work one day and she was gone. It must have been very traumatic as he could not remember any details. And despite his heartbreak, none of his family, or the little bit of friends he thought he had, cared to checked on him. He was alone. Therefore, he busied himself with work; and exhausting himself was the only way he could sleep at night.

Coming back to the present, he took his keys out of his pocket to unlock his car but then stopped. He decided that he would take advantage of the evening. He put the keys back in his pocket and walk home instead.

As he strolled along, he felt weightless. He could not remember the last time he let himself enjoy something. He immersed himself into his surroundings as he continued on his way. He looked into restaurant windows, the glass so clear and clean with no glare. He saw the steaming food and heard the clink of glassware. Below him were the fallen autumn leaves that must have been soft with moisture as they would not crunch under his feet. Ahead of him were men, women, and children laughing and holding hands. Everybody heading in the opposite direction toward him, yet so focused on their own little world that they did not notice him staring.

Turning the corner, he proceeded to his house on the now deserted street. The air was getting colder. The joyful sights and sounds had turned dim and hushed. He wrapped his arms around himself as he walked, surprised that he could not see his breath in the increasingly frigid air. 

Trying not to ruminate, he took in his surroundings. The streets were lined with dark houses, the only light coming from the hazy street lamps. The only sound he could hear were his footsteps, which oddly sounded far behind him. He suddenly no longer felt alone. Slowing his pace just a little, he turned his head. There he saw the figure walking a few yards behind him. The figure did not look particularly menacing, though it was too dark to see any details except that it was small, possibly a woman.

He then turned back around and continued walking, gradually and discreetly increasing his stride.  As he did, he gently put his hands in his coat pocket, the right hand grabbing his pocket knife.

As he carried on, he could hear the footsteps getting closer, the tempo picking up rapidly. Though his heart was not beating wildly, he was feeling less and less at ease. As the footsteps approached, his pace increased more: first to a jog and then to running as fast as he could go.

As he ran, so did the footsteps behind him. Noticing he was not out of breath yet, he was shocked that he was still in good shape. What a weird thought at a time like this. He was brought back to the present when he began tripping over his own feet and fell to the ground. His hands emerged from his pockets to instinctively catch his fall, and they, along with his knees, slid as the momentum cast him onto the asphalt. The pocket knife was now out of reach, having clattered away after his right hand came into contact with the road below. As he rested on his hands and knees, looking down at the pavement, he became aware of how quiet it was again. Staying on the ground, he slowly turned around and looked up.

There the figure was, standing above him. The silhouette definitely a woman, though the hood kept her face hidden within the shadows. With both hands loose at her side, she stood still and said nothing. 

"What do you want?" he barely choked out, his voice no louder than a whisper. She tilted her head, and he could not tell if she was confused or pitied him. She began to pull something out of her front pocket, it was cylinder in shape. He wondered what kind of weapon this was. He wanted to fight and run again, but he was frozen, unable to move. Therefore, he did the only thing he could do: brace himself.

However, what happened next perplexed him. As she brought the cylinder in front of her, she unrolled it and he could see that it was a newspaper. What the hell? he thought. She then kneeled beside him, face still covered, and gently handed him the newspaper.

He sat up slowly. He looked at the paper and back up at her, still unable to see who she was. She nudged the newspaper at him again. Confused, he hesitantly took it out of her hands and looked at it, trying to understand why it was important. He noticed the date of the paper was today's as he read the headline: Man Killed While Walking On Dimly Lit Street. "What the..." his voice trailed off as he continued reading the article. He was filled with dread as the report recounted that the man decided to leave his car at work and walk home on a crisp Friday evening during a full moon when he was killed by a hit and run driver. 

In that moment he remembered everything. The walk tonight was the exact same walk he took a month ago, and has been taking since. Though no longer a car that takes him, but the angel of death in the flesh. He realized that his wife did not leave him; instead, he left her when he died. And he has been trying to get back to her since.

The angel then reached her hand out to him. "It's time. You can't keep putting it off," she said in her ethereal voice. As he took her hand and stood up, she summoned a light a few feet away, golden and glittering and reaching high to the heavens with no end in sight. As they walked together toward the beautiful glow, all he could think about was the wife he was leaving behind. Dead or not dead, he was not ready to leave her just yet. He had to try one more time.

The angel, sensing his apprehension, looked at him and declared, "This is your last chance." Ignoring her warnings, he let go of her hand and shoved her with both of his. Having an understanding of what was going on, he was determined he would find his wife. It will be different this time, he thought.  Disrupting the angel's concentration with his push, the light disappeared and the angel faded away. At the same time, feeling weak and drowsy, he fell to the ground into a deep sleep.

DING! The chime awoke him from his daze. What a weird dream he had.

He glimpsed his weary reflection as he stepped off the elevator. He stopped to look at the muddled mirror of the elevator's walls. The long nights at his corporate job were catching up to him, as his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes demonstrated. He sighed and loosened his tie as he grabbed his coat and made his way out of the gray concrete building. 

The weekend was finally here.