Unspoken War

This is a short descriptive story I wrote for creative writing. I don't want to disclose any information, because the details are supposed to speak for themselves. I would love constructive criticism!

            I woke up to winter’s watery sun shining through the window. Outside, the ground was frozen and covered with snow. The cold air wasn’t inviting, but I gritted my teeth and stepped out of bed. Mary, my wife, was already up. I could tell by the empty space beside me and by the smell of bacon and eggs wafting in from the kitchen downstairs. I half wished that she would be there to give me a kiss and a “good morning.” She’d used to. Not anymore.

            I walked into the bathroom, my bare feet protesting the cold floor. The figure in the mirror didn’t look like me at all; I remembered myself as a fairly plump man, with dark hair that age couldn’t take away, and crinkles beside my eyes from smiling. The man in the mirror was a gaunt figure. Dark circles hung from under his eyes, and his eyes looked dead and unseeing. His hair was clearly thinning. His skin was grey. I couldn’t bear to look into his eyes because they were endless pits of pitch-black despair. I turned away from the mirror. Not today, I thought.

 

            The stairs of our old house creaked when I went down them. Like I’d anticipated, Mary was nowhere to be seen. She’d always run out for half the day, walking around town. In the evening hours, when the descending darkness would drive her home, we’d talk about small nothings. We’d try to fill in the painful emptiness with words just as hollow.

 

            The food was tasteless between my teeth. I chewed like it was a chore, and swallowed every now and then. A newspaper lied on the table, and I picked it up. News of a famous celebrity’s pregnancy made me snort. It was funny to think that Mary and I used to keep up with the news, occasionally sharing tidbits of information we found amusing or intriguing.

 

            I ran my fingers through my hair with my elbows on the table. It was a good, sturdy breakfast table. There were a few burns from when we were young and Mary was still learning the precautions of cooking. A scorch mark reminded me of the time a candle was knocked over during a blackout. There were small carvings too, the blemish of a child pressing down too hard on his pencil while practicing cursive.

 

            A particular carving caught my eye. I brushed a hand over the uneven wood. I love mommy and daddy, it read, in crude childlike handwriting.

 

            It felt like someone had punched me in the gut. My vision went blank. I abruptly stood up, and blindly reached for my plate. I hurtled it at the wall, and felt a small sense of satisfaction when it shattered into pieces. I longed for more things to break, but knew Mary wouldn’t be pleased. The plate was part of a set he’d given us for Christmas a lifetime ago. A few months ago, I’d tried to destroy every last one of them, but Mary had stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

 

            I looked at my watch despite knowing that the time would never be registered in my mind. I was supposed to be at work, but they wouldn’t mind me missing another day; they understood pain. We’ve all grown older. We’ve gotten used to colleagues receiving news in the middle of work and leaving them with a pale face and trembling hands. We pretended not to notice, even though the headlines of every newspaper weren’t lost on any of us. I shook my head and pushed away the memories. I do that a lot.

 

            The door banged shut after me. I stuffed the keys into my pockets. A thick scarf covered my mouth and nose. The day had gotten even darker than it was in the morning, if that was possible. It was slightly snowing, and the wind sharply stung my cheeks. I made my way to the woods beyond the backyard. Years ago, Mary, he, and I would go on picnics every Sunday, luging the basket filled with goods to the meadow that was on the other side of the woods. It was our special place, where nobody could harm us, where we were safe.

 

            There were no birds in the sky, no pleasant chirping, no trace of color anywhere. It seemed as if everything was dead around me. The bare branches of the trees swayed with the wind. The freshly fallen snow crunched beneath my boots. In the spring, the woods were beautiful and full with life, with sweet smelling flowers that Mary would pick, and that were just beginning to bloom. I smiled at the memory.

 

            I walked beyond our safe meadow. I walked further that I’d ever gone before. I walked away from the dead figure in the mirror, the lifeless tree branches, and the darkness that I was confined in.

Author's Note

It doesn't seem to have much of a plot. It's supposed to be a short, descriptive story, but... eh. Feedback and constructive criticism would be much appreciated! Thank you all so much for reading!