The Pain in Silence

The rain clattered down on the tin roof, rat-a-tat-tat. Like a deafening silence, echoing the void between them. The kettle boiled. But not like a modern kettle bubbling up with subtle satisfaction. This old, handmade cast iron kettle, once made with love, sat heavily on the gas. Visible cracks mark the surface through years of misuse and neglect. A symbol of their relationship, but unlike their love, the kettle rattled to a noisy climax. The pent-up energy bursts out of the well-formed spout with a piercing shrill that breaks the deathly silence.

A cloud of steam fogs the room with an air of inevitability. Condensation forms on the window, blurring his last sense of normality. As the comfort of the green fields fades out of sight, he wipes a heavy tear from his cheek and turns his head just enough to catch a glimpse of her fingers. It’s the first time either of them has moved in what feels like the longest ten minutes of his life. He can still feel the faint hint of warmth emanating from their almost touch, but her hand retreats in an awkward hurry. His heart buckles, trying not to break, but she gives no quarter. She shows no signs of remorse. Her lingering presence is a curse of obligation.

He watches as she stands. His hand is unmoved from its wishful placement. His fingers fall cold in her absence. Her now haunting figure wades through the tension to remove the kettle from the stove, breaking the siren's call. She stands motionless as though lost without purpose and casts an imposing shadow across a room once ruled by a luminous hope. That hope now weathered like the neglected plant hidden out of sight behind the sofa. Its dried leaves are now a reminder of the problems left unaddressed. Hope without nurture is like a plant without water. It withers and dies no matter how hard you love it because love without action is something else entirely.

She turns to face the door. Her stare is solemn and distant. His reddened eyes plead for a merciful glance. She made him a promise once. But he knew not then, nor now, that love cannot blossom without condition. But she knows that a vow unfulfilled is like a prayer in silence. Kind words and best wishes will get you nowhere. He waits patiently, desperately. But she can’t bring herself to look at him. To see him like this is not a memory she wants to keep. She will hold on to the memory of their love. She’ll remember how they began and not what they became. But he will only remember the pain in his gut as she walks out of his life without a second glance.

He watches helplessly as the door closes silently as if without emotion, leaving him hollow. The remnants of what they once had etched on crumpled paper. The shaky lines of black ink mark the trembles of his surrender, laying naked and exposed without comfort. A contradiction to the certainty that solidifies the name she now leaves behind. The firmness of her pen and the silence of his protest lay bare their fate.

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© Simon George 2023. All Rights Reserved.

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