The Locket

A writing prompt I found online finally broke my writer's block! :]

            Another tear streamed down Alex Foster’s cheek; he had been crying almost non-stop for nearly a week. His law firm had been closed for as long. Clients were calling his phone daily to figure out when their cases would be picked up, judges were making house calls, and he hadn’t had a moment’s peace since the funeral.

            The funeral, he thought dejectedly. The funeral had been one of the hardest days of his life. He’d brought the locket with him, intent on placing it in the casket before she was buried, but he couldn’t bear the thought of parting with it. So Alex, with his heart on his sleeve, sat on his couch, three days after the funeral, with the locket in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Neither option offered him any solace, but the alcohol at least numbed his pain. With that realization, Alex took another swig from the bottle.

            His left hand opened to reveal the locket: a silver heart, to symbolize his ever-lasting adoration of her. She had cried when he had given it to her. A smile graced his face as he recalled her throwing her arms around his neck and holding him tightly. “I love it!” she’d exclaimed. “I’ll never take it off!”

            Alex took a steadying breath as tears threatened his eyelids again. “Isabel,” he moaned into his bottle of whiskey. “Please, come back to me.” He stared at her door, praying to see it fly open and her come breezing out, telling him about her day at work. Guided by an unknown force, Alex stood up on shaky legs and stumbled to the wooden door. His hand froze on the doorknob, and he felt unsure of himself. A breeze suddenly crept through the open window, and he heard her voice on the wind. He gently turned the doorknob and stepped into the room.

            Everything was just as she had left it. The bed, unmade, had clothes strewn across it. Make up containers lay open. A tube of lipstick had fallen onto the floor and stained the carpet, just enough to notice. The closet door was opened wide, shoes were thrown in every direction he looked, and the room still smelled of her perfume. It was a scent Alex would have recognized anywhere. He’d been the one to buy her the cologne. He was constantly ravishing her with gifts to show his affection. He only wished he could have gone back and given her attention as well.

            Being in her room hurt, but he tripped and tumbled across the room until he reached her bed. He trailed his hand up one of the posts of her four-post bed. She had been living with him for nearly a year, and he had insisted she have her own bedroom from day one. Fluffy pink blankets and pillows endowed the queen-sized bed. There were pictures tacked above her headboard, and one of them brought back everything.

            They’d gotten into a fight that night. She had called him cruel, and he’d called her ungrateful. He said if he didn’t like it there, she was free to leave at any point. Tears filled her eyes. “I hate you,” she’d whispered, running out the door and slamming it behind her. Alex had wanted to go after her. She was everything to him; no one meant more to him in the entire world. He was angry, and so was she. They needed their space to cool off, and then they would take and figure things out. He sat on the couch and watched TV, waiting for her to come home. However, as midnight crept slowly closer, and Isabel still hadn’t gotten a hold of him, Alex grew worried. It wasn’t like her to be out this late without calling him. He’d taken his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the number he knew by heart. Her phone went straight to voicemail. He’d left her a message, begging her to come home and apologizing for all he had done to hurt her.

            He watched the clock; 12:30 came and went, then 1:00, then 2:00. By 2:30, Alex was so worried that he could barely see straight. He put on shoes and a jacket and opened his door. To his astonishment, there was a police officer standing on his doorstep, hand raised as if he’d been about to knock. “Mr. Foster, I presume?” Alex nodded, guarded. “My name is Officer Ashburn. Are you familiar with one Isabel Barlow?” The blood drained from Alex’s face, and Ashburn removed his cap. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, Mr. Foster, but Ms. Barlow was involved in a hit-and-run tonight, and she died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. We’d appreciate if you would come down and identify the body.”

            Moving like a ghost, Alex followed the officer down to his cruiser and climbed into the passenger seat. He didn’t realize they’d reached the hospital until Ashburn reached over and put his hand on Alex’s arm. “Mr. Foster, we’re here.” The morgue was downstairs, and they took an elevator. Standing behind the glass partitioning, Alex felt himself beginning to shake. Whether it was from the chill of the basement or fear of what he was about to see, he wasn’t sure.

            A gurney was rolled in front of the glass window, and Alex held his breath as the M.E. pulled the sheet back. As soon as her face was fully in view, a ripple of nausea shot through his stomach. Alex felt the tears climb into his eyes and down his cheek faster than he ever thought possible. He turned away quickly, bringing his hands to his face and sobbing uncontrollably. “Isabel,” he cried. “My baby.” He turned back to the window and pounded on the glass. “No!” he screamed. “Bring her back to me! Please, please, bring her back to me!” Dropping to his knees, Alex shook his hand. “I can’t lose her,” he whispered. “She’s my world.”

            Officer Ashburn helped him to his feet and led him away. Instead of walking back to the elevator, however, Alex felt himself being led into another room. “These were the belongings she had on her when she was found. We don’t think she was robbed because nothing seems to be missing.”

            Alex’s breath stopped as he skimmed his hand over the objects in the plastic brown bin. Her wallet, black and white and in the shape of piano keys. Her cell phone, the newest he could get with a bright pink and sparkly case to keep it from breaking. And the locket. The locket he had found after spending hours browsing jewelry stores, the locket with her name engraved on the back, a picture of him on one side and her on the other. The locket she’d sworn she’d never take off.

            And that’s when Alex knew it had to be buried with her. But in the end, he had cowardly kept his hand clamped around the locket, pausing only long enough to plant a kiss to Isabel’s forehead as he moved through the wake.

            Back in Isabel’s bedroom, Alex was alone. No one else had been living with them, no pets, no friends, no one. Regaining a sense of where he was, Alex brought his attention back to the picture that had brought him back to that night: it was him and Isabel, standing in front of the Christmas tree that had since been taken down. Christmas passed by for Alex without a thought. Isabel had died the night the picture had been taken, and she’d only printed it out an hour before their fight. It had been Christmas Eve.

            With a sob, Alex threw himself on her bed, clutching the locket tightly and letting the whiskey roll out of his hand and onto the floor. He held one of her pillows and inhaled her scent, trying to remember every detail. That was never difficult for Alex. He had every line of her memorized. The color of her eyes, the curve of her lip, the tone of her skin and the shape of her body. He had been in love with her from the first day he had ever laid eyes on her, almost 17 years before, when his now ex-wife had delivered her after a grueling 9-month pregnancy. Isabel had been his child through and through. But when he and his wife divorced, she was granted custody. Alex had barely-there visitation rights until Isabel was 15 years old and made the decision to live with him. They had fought about a boy the night she was killed.

            Alex fell asleep in her bed that night, and when he woke up, the locket was nowhere to be found. He looked around quickly before he saw it on the floor beside the bed. He picked it up and placed in on her vanity table. With a shuddering sigh, he stripped the room of everything that had been Isabel’s: her sheets and blankets were removed from the bed and put in the wash. Boxes were filled with her clothes, make up, pictures, posters and other paraphernalia throughout her room. When all that was left was a molding of a bedroom, Alex walked back to the vanity and picked up the locket. It was all he would keep.