On Time
By Earvin Eugene
Copyright © 2020 by Earvin P Eugene
All rights reserved.
Knowing that Mr. Miller was affected by panic attacks, a great deal of
consideration was taken to break the bad news to him. Without much notice but
with as much care as possible he was told of the possibility of his wife's death.
The message came from his brother, Victor, started by grim silence; a sad
face and stressful demeanor presented negativity. One could tell the truth was
burdensome. His wife's friend Cynthia was there, too, near him. It was her who
had been on social media when information of the car crash was received, with
Jessica Miller's name in bold letters on the list of "deceased". She double-checked
Online. She saw it on several of her friends' posts. People were sharing it
everywhere. She viewed the news repeatedly. It could be no hoax or cruel joke.
He did not hear the story as many females have in the way they spread the
narrative. They were all in confusion. They could not accept the reality. Cynthia
shed tears; she was distraught. She needed time alone. Everyone gave her much
needed space.
There Mr. Miller stood, looking through the open window. He sat down
thinking. He was tired. Mr. Miller tried to remain as calm as possible. His thoughts
raced. His life was in turmoil. He believed he would never be at peace again.
He viewed outside and could see the trees, animals, and flowers. The spring
breeze was relaxing. The moisture in the air was soothing as rain was in the
forecast. In the street below a walker who was whistling. The sounds of nostalgic
songs were playing by local stores. It reminded him of a better time. Without
realizing he hummed the melody.
The sky was clear and lightly blue. The window was an escape from a
sorrowful point of time inside. He sat with his head now at the bed. It was comfy.
He did his best not to cry. It was shameful for a man at his age to shed tears. If he
were a child, he would have innocence.
He was mature, with a somber face, stillness and clear. It was the appearance
of a remainder of youth right before distinguished wrinkles would become present.
At this moment there was a lackluster glare in her eyes, whose view was located
away somewhere on one of those clouds in the sky. It was not a gaze of remorse,
but rather indicated a mystery of clever thought.
There was something coming over him and he did not like the feeling. He
could not put a finger on it. He did not know what to do. He was too clueless to
recognize it. There was a shadow hanging over him. All the signs pointed to
something ominous.
Now his chest felt strain and heat. He was realizing something important.
Mr. Miller knew this was immoral, but he embraced it. He reached a glimmer of
hope and happiness. His heartbeat fast. He said it aloud: "At last I am free!" The
bad stare and the look of trouble that had followed it started from his eyes as he
roamed the room. Soon his vision became concise and vibrant as he looked in the
mirror. He was hot and heavy. He saw a new man.
He felt regretful joy. He knew that he would feel sorrow when the dreadful
funeral occurred. To witness his beautiful and pleasant wife in such a horrid
position would be terrible. Death of a loved one can never be good. He did not
want to paint a portrait of her at her death bed. However, he removed himself from
that bitter time.
It was selfish but he could live on his own accord. There would be no one to
answer for during those coming years; he would experience "freedom". There
would be no commitment for blind allegiance that men and women believe they
have a right to impose upon each other. Who is to say whether it is good or bad but
there is something to question in the lifestyle in which society imposed on
marriage. At the time there was a sense of true liberation. There was no lying to the
fact that he loved her most of the time. On many occasions he did not. Who cares?
What is love? Shouldn't it include to feel alive. That is a strong emotion maybe
even greater than love itself.
"I'm released!" He kept thinking.
Cynthia was nearby behind the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, asking for
entrance. "Miller, open the door! Please; open the door--you will get sick. What is
going on, Miller? C'mon open the door."
"Leave me alone. I am fine." No; he was smoking tobacco through that open
window.
He pondered about the upcoming days. All the days of the seasons. Hot and
cold days, times with perfect weather. And all those typical and new sorts of days
that he would be independent. He hoped that life would be long and amazing.
He decided to open the door and share life with friends and family. There was a
sense of confidence. An unsure feeling of accomplishment. He shook his brother's
hand. They went down the stairs. His environment was calm. Miller was relieved.
Through the roller coaster of emotions, he believed he was done with that journey.
He was exhausted.
There was a sound of the front door opening. It was his wife who entered, a
little tired, calmly carrying her stuff. She was slightly disheveled and was in her
work attire. She had been far from the scene of the accident and did not even know
there had been one. She was bewildered by the shock in the house. She stood
amazed at Mr. Miller's face.
When the ambulance arrived, they said he had a stroke.