Skeleton

memories of a life once lived.

I still feel you near me. I still dream about you and I still remember when you were missing. You've been gone for years now, and sometimes, in the dead of night, I am awaken by your voice. My oxygen is cut short in those dreams, causing me to throw my covers off and bolt upright in my bed.
In my mind, I'm still there in that room, pacing the floor, left to right. My toes digging into the harsh carpet, as the news played in the background. You were missing for 180 days and all I was ever told was that they found your helmet, some dibs in the dirt and a trail of blood that lead nowhere.
The shrilling, abnoxious squeal of the crosswalk alarm, wailed continuously, from the street down below, into my window. Even now, I can hear it clear as day, as it beeped in sync with my anxiety ridden heart. You said you would come back, but every day, every night, I was critically disappointed. My throat always painfully dry, my panic spiraling out of control. I barely functioned day to day-losing just a little more sleep each night, staying up just a little later, hoping you would show, hoping the phone would ring, Him telling me that they found you and that you were going to be okay.
They found you, but you would never be okay. I would never see you again.
Some days, I drank just enough to stave off the pain. Some days, I drank just so I could sleep. Other days, I drank to drive the pain out of me, because it was so extreme, I wanted to rip my hair out and scream to world that they had taken everything from me. I wanted the love of my life to come back and tell me he was wrong and that somehow we could make a life again, even though he was no longer the boy I fell in love it. They had destroyed him and taken him away from me, and left me with this shell that use to be the man I once gave everything to . Who treated me like the center of his world, because he adored me so, for reasons of he'd go out of his way to not share with me. Just a small smirk and a sweet kiss whenever I demanded to know what it was he saw in me. A soft, forcefully kind of pining for my attention whenever I was preoccupied, because he towered over me in height, and knew I could never deny him anything.
I dream sometimes, of those times. The sun always shone so softly through the kitchen windows and the trees were always so damn green, you could almost smell the summer bursting into its citrus, full bloom. We'd always lean against the sink and share his breakfast-or mine-whoever got started first.
I can still hear the laughter, I can still see the smiles, and I can still feel the kisses on my forehead. I can still feel your fingers against mine. It always ends the same-just as you pick me up and placed me on the edge of the sink, so I could come eye to eye with you, I see that thick, black ink flood the floors so suddenly. We'd look down and I would scream "NO!".
Suddenly my eyes are wide open and I am alone in my bed, my covers laying on the floor. It is the middle of the night and the only thing that reminds me of my blatant reality if the ticking of the clock.

Author's Note

These are my earliest attempts at short story writing. The story is a mixture of fiction and actual events that took place in my life, some time ago. I was very unsure of the gammar, so anything-any advice, or critiques anyone could offer, would be excellent. My aim is to continue writing, along with my poetry in a hopes of refining both, as I go along.
Thank You for reading my story.