The summer wind blows merrily, promising rain to ease the
suns fever. Thatched roofed, white with red trim, the shabby cottage drowns in
an ocean of green countryside. Alone it braces the forces.
Inside, a German Shepard looks tentatively at its owner. Aware
that the situation has somehow deteriorated, confused as to what action to take.
The only human occupant scribbles furiously at his desk
pausing only to pour the contents of a bottle of Jack down his throat and
grimace as it burns.
“What you looking at Bernard? Stupid mutt,” slurs Stanley
Marsden, a writer and photographer of some repute. Age, booze and self-loathing
have taken their dues on his temperament and once good looks.
Bernard produces a high pitched sound in a response.
“Get! I'm f***ing busy or drunk … pick one!”
Its been two years since Stanley and Bernard moved into
isolation. The cottage’s ground floor serves as the living area and study and the
first a spacious and seldom used bedroom. Here, Stanley hopes to find the words of his greatest work
yet. Words that had eluded him until this morning, they flooded onto the page.
“Out dog! Go run in the field, chase from the squirrels,”
Stanley laughs out loud at his own drunken error, “Silly dog.”
The front door stands open but Bernard is far too concerned with his human’s odd behaviour to be tempted.
“I should have got a cat. Someone offered me a cat once, I
said no. Cats don’t … care.”
A new sadness creeps over the pen-smith; as if the sum of
his sorrows has arrived to collect a great debt.
“Miriam,” he says to no one in particular, the memory is
sharp and direct. The warm familiar depression has taken its place in his head
next to the booze; they make dark and uncomfortable fellows.
The misery has arrived.
“She loved us you know. She could have loved the whole world
and still had more for us.”
Bernard barks a bright acknowledgement.
Stanley feels a familiar tug in his chest and the anxiety blossoms,
causing his breath to quicken until he is almost gasping for air. Not now pray
not yet. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists in anticipation for pain
that doesn't materialise.
He closes his eyes and sees her, Miriam. She’s naked and her
bloom is full, still supple, still taut, she laughs and beckons him with those heavenly
eyes.
It passes.
Too many troubled shades; the hours of work, selling out,
the book tours, the drugs, the trusting and quick to please interns all
circling like bats over a tombstone.
“I could have changed the world Bernie, just got caught up
in this nonsense. I could have changed the world but I got rich instead. It’s corrupted
every part of my life. We forgot the things that matter, lost sight of the
beautiful things in life. I miss her so much.”
Tears roll across his face, he wipes them away crudely but
they return: “I'm dying Bernie. The vale is so thin. I’ll never finish this. I
always thought you’d go first old boy.”
The second wave hits him hard. His chest binds and a bolt of
pain powers through his left arm. He falls to the ground contorting his face and
neck involuntarily searching for just one more breath; Bernard rushes over and
tries helplessly to comfort the stricken man, licking his face and whimpering.
His heart is a trapped bird in a ribcage. They’ll never find
me, is his final thought as the bird breaks free.
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