by Terry Morgan
Part of me wanted to disappear into an alcoholic fog.
Another side wanted me to remain cool and calm because I knew my thoughts would become confused. I could see a mental abyss before me and knew that if I wasn’t careful it was likely to be filled with a terrifying tangle of unfathomable intrigue into which my mind would spiral, uncontrollably.
But it was at that point that I changed. It was at that moment that I began to hate the introverted depression that had dominated me since I retired. I put the untouched full glass of whisky and the bottle onto the floor and sat there, alone, feeling colder by the minute. So, I turned up the gas fire, pulled my chair closer and held my hands towards it.
For the first time, ever Sarah’s log effect gas fire seemed comforting.
But my mind still felt like a knotted ball of string.
The more I tried to unravel it, the tighter the knots seemed to become.
I got up, went to the kitchen and then came back and looked at myself in the mirror over the shelf by Sarah’s crockery cabinet.
I moved the little wicker basket dish which still contained her comb, brush and hair clips and I smelled them. Tears came to my eyes, overflowed and rolled down my cheeks.
I had found a similar basket in Beaty’s desk drawer.
Then I tried to look at myself in the mirror and felt sure I heard Sarah come up behind me.
“What a sight for sore eyes,” I heard her say. “You need to pull yourself together, Mr Thomas.”
I went to sit down again, held my cold hands towards the fire and made a decision. If Donaldson really was still alive, then I needed to act. I still owed it to Sarah. I owed it to Beaty. I owed it now to myself.
So, I now have something new to do and am working on an audacious plan.
But first I need a good sleep.
