Flash Fiction: Presence, Part Eight

She was his muse and his assurance. The watery promise that there was more than the pained life he departed before sunrise. And then he was gone. No voice. No light. Nothing. Nothing but her tears and her loneliness.

She awakened with a gasp, cold, wet and naked. Her silent scream roused no neighbors. Her clawing fingers on frosted glass left streaked messages for help the living would not see. She collapsed where she had awakened —where she always awakened— and curled beside the drain, she wept.

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2018 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.

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