Waiting

An owl called out in the darkness.

It was half-three when Stone last looked at the clock.

The owl called again, further away this time. Its wavering note carried on the breeze.

Another night without sleep.

His throat hurt him.  His mouth was dry and coarse.

He would have loved to cry.  To sob all the tension out of his wretched body then fall into grateful oblivion.

But his soul would not release its burden. As though protecting him - keeping him strong.

It was only delaying the big collapse. He knew this road well.

A sharp pain stabbed behind his ear.

He thought of his aunt.  Beyond the Last Rites.  Beyond the worst that life could do.

Only death could touch her now.

He remembered the shock of seeing her at the last funeral.  Like a woman feigning frailty - borrowing the garb for an outing.

And now she’d smoked her last cigarette.  Only yesterday, before they took her in.

He thought about the younger ones – taken barely in their twenties – and a short sob escaped him.

But still the tears of release did not come.

So he stared at the shadows moving on the ceiling and waited for the morning.