Night

Night

Prompt 6/10

The last time I looked... at the clock it was half past three in the
morning. I had been tossing and turning all night, catching no more
than ten minutes sleep at a time, and I felt about ready to kill
myself. Where was he? Why hadn't he phoned? Amidst the fear that
something might have happened to him, I also felt anger. How could he
be so inconsiderate to not phone me if he wasn't going to come home? He
knew that I had an important meeting in the morning, and he knew that I
would worry about him, unable to sleep, playing different scenarios in
my mind, one scarier than the other. Why did he do this to me, the
inconsiderate bastard! The thought of slapping his face hard when he
eventually walked through the door gave me some ephemeral relief, but
really, I was worried sick about him.

What could have happened? Had the car broken down? Well surely he would
have phoned the AA and got it fixed, or at least had himself taken to a
hotel. And that wouldn't explain why he hadn't phoned me. If the
battery in his mobile was flat he would have found a payphone. There
was only one explanation why he hadn't contacted me, and I didn't even
want to think about it.

Maybe there was another one. What if he had a girlfriend? He was with
her, wasn't he, he was betraying me while I was at home worrying myself
into a frenzy. I clenched my fists in anger, wanting to punch his
lights out at the earliest opportunity, if he just came home to me, if
I just saw him again, made sure he was okay, then I would punch his
lights out.

Just as long as he was okay.

He wasn't. He couldn't be. He wouldn't do this to me, not after ten
years of marriage, not like this, without a word, with no warning, no
phone call, Christ, he hadn't even left a note to say he was leaving
me! No, it had to be something else, something far worse than I could
imagine, something terrible and permanent.

Every time I heard a car pass the house, I jumped out of bed and looked
through the curtains, conviced it was him, or the police bringing me
the bad news. It had to be one or the other. I was sure it was him. I
was sure it was the police.

At some point after half past three in the morning, I must have dozed
off. I remember having an awful nightmare. I was at his funeral,
dressed in black, crying my eyes out, and when I woke up I remembered
how I had felt in the dream. My pillow was wet so I really must have
been crying. I checked the clock, then the pillow next to me. It was
seven o'clock, and he had not come home.

Why had I woken up? I wasn't sure, until I heard the banging on the
door. Someone demanded to be let in, and suddenly I was barely able to
move. I knew what I had to do, I knew I had to get up, put on my old,
faded dressing gown and see who was at the door, but I found it almost
impossible to complete those tasks. Slowly, I went down the
stairs.

It was him.

It was the police, telling me he was dead.

I stood at the door and listened to the knocking. Almost unconscious
with fear, I put my hand on the doornob and turned it...