80 SOMETHING

This is everyone's story. If not already, then in the future. i guess it happens to us all.

                       80 SOMETHING

Dusk had started settling in. he leaned back on his easy chair on the porch- a place he has learned to revere in the last 30 lonely years of his life. The lights of the entire house were off; he just didn’t feel like turning them on. What difference would it make anyway? He thought to himself.

             A light breeze came and rustled the auburn leaves of his neglected garden. He liked the solitude of this hour- when nature was going to bed. In the secluded colony where he lived, time was at a standstill. He slowly dozed off and his arm went slack which was, until now, holding an old, battered copy of The Secret Garden- a childhood favorite.

              The last cigarette’s glowing butt was reduced to cinders. And the only light that dared a peek in this old mansion was an old, tired street light on the other side of the lot. It bathed the entire place in a sickly, ghostly yellow.

             The darkness increased and smothered every mundane objects of the house.

              His hold on the book was weakening progressively as was his hold on life. And after a while, the book fell with a damp thud and aroused this man from his drowse.

             This was all too familiar to him. This was textbook synchronized. After all, when you had 30 years to practice every scene, you don’t really miss a beat. And he never did. He had never missed a beat up until it was time to wake up. It was then that he had always wished to say unconscious; forever.

            The steady wrinkled hands reached towards his pack of smoke and absent-mindedly lit one up. The bright glow of the cigarette made his already unreadable face even more incomprehensible. The once electric blue eyes had considerably dimmed over the years. As did his drive to live. He thought back to his dead sweetheart, Martha. He was an old man with life devoid of purpose; had a big empty house and an even emptier life. He remembered the lonely bed waiting for him and his body shook with a desperation that cast ugly shadows within him. He thought back to his service revolver lying in his drawer and wanted to use it good for once. But he was a stubborn man; an old stubborn man. He would wait till He could wait no more. The cigarette was finished. He stood up reluctantly, picked the book up and slowly dragged himself into this void he has learned to call his home.

 

                                                                                       ©ANNIE MAJUMDER                                                                                                                           

Author's Note

Tell me what you think of this. one of my first hand at short stories. so...