Momentum

Sometimes momentum's the only thing carrying you forward.

The bright red and green lights on the houses mocked him as he stumbled down the street. The wind was like a cold knife driving through the flimsy barrier of his clothing. The only sounds that broke the stillness of the night were his wheezing breaths and the crunch of snow underneath his feet. The scent of smoke clung to his clothes, wafting off him in unbearable waves, though he no longer noticed it. He wasn't running, but he couldn't bring himself to a complete halt. One of the doors on the festooned houses and the sound of "Here Comes Santa Claus" floated into the night for a few brief seconds before it was muffled by a door slamming shut. He flinched at the sound. Still, his tired legs carried him forward inexorably, both toward and away from shelter.

All he knew was that he had to keep moving. He had to keep putting distance between himself and the wreckage of what used to be his home. He was homeless now. One of the beggars that he used to look on with pity.

But this was better. Now he wasn't weighed down by that awful house. Now he didn't have to remember the look on her face when he bought it for her. He didn't have to remember the way she used to putter around in the garden out back. Or the way she insisted that the house needed a white picket fence to be complete. He didn't have to remember the good times. Even more he didn't have to remember the bad times. Like when she first got sick. Or the way that she wasted away in the bedroom, getting sicker with every single breath. Or the way he was helpless against the disease that finally took her.

It was all gone. All of it ashes blowing across the snow scattering like he wished his memories of her would. But memories were not so easily disposed of. Not like a house which could go up in flames so easily. His memories were much more concrete, maybe that was why it still hurt.

Author's Note

Any thoughts you have would be appreciated.

Reviews

[Minki]

Thanks for being good at imagery. I thought it was a dying skill. Anyway, the end of this piece doesn't seem like the end. It leaves the reader grasping for more, wishing for more answers, but also wishing that so much had not been answered in such a short amount of time. "What will become of the man?" we wonder, whilst also wondering why the cause of his fleeing was revealed so early in a story that could become a novel. This is very good. Keep at it!

[selkietales]

This is great! I like how you showed his story in few words, but still conveyed emotion and painted a picture.

[Lydia]

This is a beautiful piece.

[Pritesh]

Excellent poem by you!