Driftwood

         It's been six months since Henry passed away. The children did their duty; they stayed around to console me in the days following the funeral. But then they were gone too, just as my dear Henry was.

         I think most would agree that it is fine to be alone at times. But loneliness, true loneliness, I find to be an evil thing.

         Henry and I bought our little house on ten acres of beautiful wooded land when the children were still young enough to delight in its exploration. Now I care not about the house, nor does it care about me. It serves merely to taunt me with its creaks and moans. It truly scares me sometimes. I feel it's ready to cave me in under its beams during a good wind.

         I know you'll say I just never noticed the noises before, as Henry did enjoy his television a good portion of the day after he retired. And before then, the laughter and sibling rivalry of the children drowned out the voice of the house entirely. But I know, I know it is angry and disappointed with me, as I no longer care to polish its wood, wipe the cobwebs from its corners or wax its floors.

         Now I just sit mostly. Sometimes I'll read, sometimes write a letter to a friend, and always lie that I am doing just fine. My youngest daughter, Mable, has been most concerned about me. She decided that I needed company, and she was right.

         So Mable decided to buy me a little, tan-haired Yorkie. Cute little thing, too, but not exactly the company I had in mind; he was quiet as a mouse. I've had him for two months, and not once has he ever barked. He just follows me all over the house wagging his squat tail. I've tripped over him on more than one occasion, so I named him Shadow.

         I decided last week that I didn't want to be lonely anymore. I've been getting things organized, so that when they find my body, it won't be too difficult on my family to settle my affairs.

         This morning I left out about two weeks worth of food for little Shadow in the kitchen; I knew someone would find me by then. I walked to my bedroom and took Henry's pistol from the wooden case he kept under our bed ever since I can remember. I never shot a gun in my life, but I've seen how they do it in the movies; take the safety off and pull the trigger. Can't be that difficult.

         I held the cold, black piece in my frail, weathered hand. It was an odd contrast, and I studied it for a long moment. "This is it, Martha," I thought to myself. "Time to go join your Henry."

         I held the gun and aimed it at my heart. I closed my eyes tight, and found my hand shaking a bit more than usual. I slipped my finger on the trigger, when all of a sudden... I just couldn't believe it... the little dog started barking like mad in the doorway! Scared the living daylights out of me!

         "Shadow, what are you doing?" I said angrily. His nails scratched upon the wooden floor as he ran across to me, looked up with his sparkling eyes and wagged his little tail. Why, he was saving my life, of course!

         I put the gun down on the bed, picked him up and stroked his silky fur.

         "Well, maybe Henry can wait just a little bit longer."




The Writer's Cramp Contest Winner 3/8/07 - Prompt: "the little dog started barking"