She put the phone down as if the weight thereof got too much.
In some sense it did. The phone call ended, but the message stayed with her. The words almost played on repeat. It was a nightmare that felt like a rock hitting her face continually as if a prank went wrong. She looked in the mirror and felt the need to drink away the phone call. Her movements were not her own, a puppetmaster controlled her every move. The cabinet opened. The bottle cap hit the floor. The whisky flowed seamlessly into the glass. She put the bottle down and did not mind putting the cap back on. She will return to the bottle. She murmured the words to herself. She is dead. How could it be? So suddenly. She is dead. The whisky leaves a trail of fire in her throat. She pours herself another drink.
She is dead.
She is dead.
She is dead.
She is dead.
Maybe the more she repeats the words the less true they will become. Dilute the reality, throw it in the ocean, and see it disperse.
But it does not work. The more she drinks, the more she homes in on the truth or her sister's demise.
How?
OD.
She is dead?
She is dead.
Why do the words not fade? she wonders as she drinks yet another drink. Her taste is gone, it tastes like nothing. The world spins. Because of what she just heard but also because of what she drank. She fell on the couch and tried to close her eyes. She could not face darkness now. She stood up and walked outside where the cold night air hit her skin. It was dark except for the moon and stars. No sound contaminated the air. The loneliness got to her first. She was alone. Her parents cut her off, she does not have any friends left. Her sister was her only hope. The last link to reality she had left. Now, nothing.
She is dead.
A deep breath. Cold air. Tears sting her face. The silence deafens her. She wants to scream, but the energy in her body has left. Nothing makes sense. The whisky does not even numb the pain anymore. Catatonic. Her limbs feel like solid concrete. Her mind comes to a halt. Where the world spun minutes earlier, a remarkable absence of movement took her body over. Her gaze is fixed on nothing. Her fingers merely stroking the texture of her pants.
She is dead.
This might just be the start of a novella or a novel I am writing. Last week, I wrote a short story that I think has a lot of potential. I have written one manuscript in my home language in Afrikaans many moons ago. I think the time is ripe for me to write another novel or novella again. And what better place than on Hive? This is the first 500 words of what might become a shortish book.
The style I want to use is something between Albert Camus and Chuck Palahniuk. They are two of my favorite writers. The story will unfold itself. For now, it is merely the sister who has died and the other sister, the main character, who struggles to cope with this news.
I hope you will go on this journey with me. It might yield something interesting! Stay well, and happy writing!
(The image is my own, taken with my Nikon D300. The short story is also my own creation.)
