Entry #4

"The Widower's Light"
by Flood Vax


I am sorry to tell you your wife has died.

In a funeral home, under some stairs, Dobson is crouched in an alcove.

She had a good life.

The funeral director is closing up. He listens as she makes her way through the building, turning off lights and closing doors. The ceiling lights of the corridor in which he hides go out. The only source of light are twin lamps, set on a table opposite his alcove.

I cannot leave Frances alone in here.

Footsteps approach. He tries to hold his breath as she walks past. His lungs betray him. He tries to catch his breath but he is caught instead.

'Hello? Who's there?' The startled director turns his way, blocking light shed by the lamps. He waves his hand dismissively. Only an old man...but nothing escapes his coughing fit.

Frances has never been alone at night since we were married.

'Mr. Dobson! Are you-?' Dobson lurches into the corridor. Stumbling, he knocks over one lamp. It flickers out, in shards.

She would have lived if I didn't panic.

Unstable, he reaches for the director. She backs away, confused. Dobson, still fighting for air, is panicked. Reaching for the table, the second light falls. The director tries to pass him to get to a phone. They collide; he collapses.

Darkness.

'Mr. Dobson?'

Find a way to live without her now, Dad.

The director blindly feels for vital signs. Finding none, she goes back to her office to use the phone.

[Flood is a new blogger to the internet and a wanna-be author. With no experience and nothing published, Flood relies on a "Fake-it-til-you-make-it" attitude.]