Short Story Draft

“What do I remember? Why, I can’t remember anything at all. Who’s to say what I’ve done? I certainly don’t know. I’ve done my best, I suppose, and then sometimes I haven’t.”

The old man sat up in a hospital bed, staring out a large picture window. Outside, rain came down at a steady, comforting pace. The soothing sound of the droplets slapping against the dark glass masked the gentle beeping of the various machines around him. Near his bed was a large armchair where sat the young man, studying him with a frown.

The room itself was small and dingy, sparsely decorated, with the only source of light at this late hour being the warm glow of a lamp on a side table. Between the bed and the black pane of the window, it illuminated little but cast long, stretched shadows across the ceiling. A long time passed until the young man ventured softly,

“Do you remember being in love with her?”

His face lost all trace of annoyance and his eyes closed gently as the old man replied.

“You can’t remember something you never forget.”

Easing back in his chair, the young man rubbed his red eyes and checked his watch. His face showed exhaustion, but it was more than this; a weight of responsibility rested on his features, aging him more than his years.

He looked down at the floor for a long while, then lifted his head and said, vulnerably,

“I’m not ready, Dad.”

Meeting his eyes for the first time, the old man smiled sadly.

“It doesn’t matter.”

A woman in white entered softly to check the machines. Silently, the young man turned and wiped away tears with the sleeve of his shirt. Before long, the woman had gone and the two resumed their introspection.

“How would you write it, if you could? How would you want it to end?”

He thought at first the old man had not heard him. He appeared to be lost in thought, staring into the rain. Still, he waited and was rewarded.

“You can’t choose an ending. That’s not how life works. It hardly ever
goes the way we mean it to.”

The young man fell silent, disheartened. He turned in the armchair, feeling the scratchy upholstery with his face and, the sound of the rain serenading him, allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

When he awoke, he saw the old man now asleep, mouth open and snoring gently. He checked his watch again, stood, stretched his arms up high, and quietly exited the room. He returned with a cup of coffee in hand to find the old man still sleeping. He took a seat on the bed next to him and took the old man’s hand in his own.

On the tray table, the young man’s eyes found a scrap of paper he had not noticed before. Intrigued, he set down his cup and drew the hand-scrawled message closer.

“And it was always the same with them, as long as anyone could remember - as predictable as time, it was. They would lie down at day’s end, turning to face one another. And she would ask him, as they lay there, ‘Do you love me?’ And came the reply: ‘Yes, certainly.’”

The young man was roused from his thoughts as the door opened. A young woman entered, cautiously. The young man rose to greet her, placing the scrap of paper in his pocket as he did so. Together the two conversed in hushed tones, solemnity etched on their faces.

After a moment, the young man leaned in to whisper his goodbye. As he grabbed his coat and made for the door, his post was taken up immediately by the young woman who drew the armchair still closer to the bed of the old man.

The young man’s home was dark and still when he entered. Noiselessly, he shut the door, removed his shoes, and made his way to bed. As he slid under the sheets, a figure next to him stirred momentarily, then all was still again. He lay there a long while, staring unblinkingly up at the shadows on the ceiling. He may well have slept, even he did not know.

At some point in the darkness, there was a faint buzzing. The young man held the phone up to his ear long enough to hear the voice on the other end.

“It’s over.”

Wordlessly, he let the phone fall from his grasp and closed his eyes.