Missing ~ {Chapter 2 of Sandstorm}

This is just an excerpt from Chapter 2 of Sandstorm

I hung up the phone. And stared at the 8 digit number. I had just filed a missing person's report. On Rafael, my husband. I wanted to cry the type of crying that comes with that guttural type of sobbing. I wanted to cry out to the universe the cry that screamed itself inside my mind: gimme a f*****g break, already! I felt the temptation so strongly, to fall into self-pity; I resisted the urge. I resisted the urge to use any external device to dilute that sick feeling I had in the pit of my gut. I called the hospitals. I'm sorry there's no one here by that name. I called his employer and left a message for him there. And then? I did nothing. An incredible fatigue enveloped me.

My ego burned ~ clamoured for some sort of outlet, something foolish to engage its infernal rage. I must admit, I indulged it, in a small, stupid way. I found all the cigarettes Rafi had stashed around the house, and I cut them up. Not just in half, but, in small pieces that he could not easily patch. And then I left the mangled tobacco sticks on his side of the bed. As I studied my handiwork, I giggled momentarily, imagining Rafi, sitting on the sofa, smoking a patched-up cigarette. I wondered if he would patch these. Or, maybe, just disembowel the remains and re-roll the tobacco. I told myself that he might not ever return. I decided that, regardless of whether or not Rafi came home, I would refrain from sleeping in the bed. I contemplated all the things that I would have to do, if indeed, he would not return to me. And I mulled over the four reasons he could have for his tardiness: (1) some harm came to him; (2) f*****g some other girl; (3) careless and air-headed - just lost track of time; (4) not coming back because he didn't f*****g feel like it.

The last time I went downtown to look for Rafi, every dingy pub looked closed for the night. My watch showed the time as well past 1 am ~ not a time I typically liked to lurk about the infamous corner of Hasting and Main. I saw three cop cars in the alley near Carnegie Centre. I saw rats, stealing across the sidewalk, and into one of the many board-up businesses that lined Hastings, near Cambie. Also, a scattering of strung out, high junkies floating about the sidewalk, and at times, right in the middle of Hastings. I saw no one that resembled my guy. I wondered why other wives didn't have these sorts of experiences. I wondered how wives of police officers and soldiers struggled with the possibility that their man may not return home to them. How does one live with that real possibility? No one who has lost a loved one ever expected it, did they?