Short Story : Once I'm Gone
Sitting alone in her spare bedroom, Mary stared at the screen of her laptop computer.
What stared back at her was a word document with a flashing cursor sat at the beginning of a new paragraph.
It had been sat like that, on and off, for four months.
Four months since Mary had been able to write anything down, four months since she’d last worked on her novel, four months since...
...She didn’t want to think about it.
As she stared at the screen, Mary imagined that it was staring back at her, giving her an unnerving feeling of being watched. She shuddered, standing up from the roller chair that neatly tucked into her desk and wandered into the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, Mary took stock of what she had left to eat. A bottle of milk sat suspiciously in the fridge door, while a lump of half eaten cheese changed colour before her very eyes. The last of her ready meals sat on the top shelf, while in the vegetable crisper a floppy cucumber nestled comfortably with a lettuce that was well on its way to turning brown. Reaching for the ready meal, Mary took it from the fridge and held it in one hand.
As she closed the door, her cat Mittens suddenly appeared in the room, lacing its way between Mary’s ankles. Mary kneeled down, kneading her fingers gently into the fur behind Mittens neck.
“Hey there, boy,” Mary soothed, putting the ready meal on the counter, “where’ve you been? I haven’t see you in a while.”
“Well, a cat’s got to eat,” Mittens replied, “You haven’t been feeding me, so I found a place where they’re more than happy to give me their left over scraps.”
Mary stood up again, “I’m sorry, boy,” she said to the cat sadly, “I’ve had things on my mind.”
“That stupid book of yours is more important to you than I am,” Mittens purred loudly, “ever since Clive died you’ve done nothing but sit in that room, staring at that screen.”
Mary picked up a fork and punctured the plastic on her ready meal before placing it in the microwave and setting the timer for three minutes, “I’ve got to finish the story,” Mary sighed, walking away from the cat, “If I don’t, then who else will?”
“Does it really matter if you finish the story?” Mittens asked, following Mary into the spare room, “Clive’s dead – that’s how the story should end. Writing a tale about your love for each other might have been a good idea once, but all you’ve got left is a depressing story of loss and regret – no-one wants to read about that.”
“Someone might,” Mary said, taking a seat at her desk once again.
The cat jumped up onto the desk, seeming to read the words on the screen.
“So, are you going to stick to the truth?” he asked, “Are you going to write that Clive died and a part of you died too?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Mary said, her finger hovering over the keyboard but not actually touching the keys, “I just can’t think right now.”
“You could always change the ending,” Mittens suggested, “you know, make it more upbeat. Just because Clive is dead it doesn’t mean he has to die in the book. You could write the happy ending that you always dreamed of.”
“But that would be a lie,” Mary said, her hands not moving from above the keyboard, “my readers wouldn’t believe my story unless it was true.”
“And how many readers do you actually have?” Mittens asked, “There’s what, three followers on your blog? Three sad losers who have been waiting more than four months for your latest update. They’ve probably given up by now, moved on to something new, like piano-playing cats. They probably won’t even realise when you upload your next entry.”
“Someone will notice,” Mary said sadly, “someone has to notice once I’m gone.”
Mittens stared at his owner, his head tilting to one side in a questioning fashion, “What do you mean by that? Once you’re gone? You’re not going anywhere.”
“I will be,” Mary said flatly, “once I finish this.”
Mary’s fingers fell to the keys and started to type. Mittens watched the words as they appeared on the screen and swallowed nervously.
“When Clive died in that car crash,” Mary wrote, “I didn’t know how I could live on without him. He’d been my guiding light, my one true friend, and the only person who supported me in my dream of becoming a writer. No one would publish me, so I fell to that old stand-by of writing a blog and uploading my stories there. This is the one story I wanted to tell; the story of Clive and my love for each other, but it wasn’t supposed to end like this.
“I don’t know what happened to the other driver – the driver who ran Clive’s car off the road – but I suspect he didn’t get half the sentence that I’ve been facing. The last four months has felt like umpteen life sentences without Clive, and even Mittens has abandoned me...”
“Hey!” Mittens interrupted Mary’s flow, “I’m still here.”
“But you don’t want to be,” Mary told him, hearing the microwave ping in the kitchen, “like you said, I’m in no fit state to feed you. Why don’t you go to those other people that have been taking care of you?”
“Because I like it here,” Mittens said as Mary stood up from her seat, the cat following her into the kitchen, “I want to stay here with you. Someone has to look out for you as well, you know. This has always been a reciprocal relationship.”
Mary chuckled, “That’s an odd thing for a cat to say,” Mary smiled, “no-one should have to rely on a pet for emotional advice.”
“My point is,” Mittens said, eyeing the ready meal as Mary took it from the microwave, “that you’re not alone. You have me.”
“I can’t rely on a cat for emotional support,” Mary shook her head as she peeled back the film from her meal, “it’s bad enough I think that you’re talking to me.”
Mittens meowed loudly, “I may not be talking to you,” he said, “but a part of you is. A part of your brain, no matter how small, is trying to talk you out of this.”
“Maybe,” Mary said, carrying the meal into the spare room and sitting back down at her laptop, “but it’s only a small part. A much larger part is telling me that this is what I have to do.”
Mary started to type again;
“...and even Mittens has abandoned me, moving on to a better place where he can still be fed by a loving family.
“As I said before, Clive was my guiding light, and without that light all I can see in my future is darkness. I can’t go on without him, and it’s taken me this long to realise that...”
Mary stopped typing and reached into a drawer in her desk, taking out a small yellow container filled with powder. The label on the container featured a sinister skull.
“What are you doing?” Mittens asked, pawing at the bottle as Mary tried to unscrew the cap.
“Something I should have done four months ago,” Mary told him, pouring the contents of the bottle over her meal before placing the now empty bottle neatly on the desk. She then resumed typing;
“So if you’re reading this, then I’ve logged my final entry on this blog. I hope you enjoyed the lighter moments of this story, and I’m sorry it had to end this way. Perhaps, once I’m gone, you’ll all understand.”
Mary pressed save on the word document then copied the text onto her blog, pressing save to update the entry.
“Thank you Mittens,” Mary said, sticking a fork into her tray of food.
Mittens stared at her, “What for?” he asked.
“For listening to me,” Mary said, eating a mouthful of the food, “for trying to be my voice of reason.”
“That wasn’t me,” Mittens told you, “what you’re hearing is your voice, your words, trying to tell you not to do this. But you wouldn’t listen.”
“What would be the point in listening?” Mary asked, swallowing her first mouthful before picking up another with her fork, “Why would I take advice from a mad woman.”
Originally Posted 1/6/2015
Result - Joint 5th Place
What stared back at her was a word document with a flashing cursor sat at the beginning of a new paragraph.
It had been sat like that, on and off, for four months.
Four months since Mary had been able to write anything down, four months since she’d last worked on her novel, four months since...
...She didn’t want to think about it.
As she stared at the screen, Mary imagined that it was staring back at her, giving her an unnerving feeling of being watched. She shuddered, standing up from the roller chair that neatly tucked into her desk and wandered into the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, Mary took stock of what she had left to eat. A bottle of milk sat suspiciously in the fridge door, while a lump of half eaten cheese changed colour before her very eyes. The last of her ready meals sat on the top shelf, while in the vegetable crisper a floppy cucumber nestled comfortably with a lettuce that was well on its way to turning brown. Reaching for the ready meal, Mary took it from the fridge and held it in one hand.
As she closed the door, her cat Mittens suddenly appeared in the room, lacing its way between Mary’s ankles. Mary kneeled down, kneading her fingers gently into the fur behind Mittens neck.
“Hey there, boy,” Mary soothed, putting the ready meal on the counter, “where’ve you been? I haven’t see you in a while.”
“Well, a cat’s got to eat,” Mittens replied, “You haven’t been feeding me, so I found a place where they’re more than happy to give me their left over scraps.”
Mary stood up again, “I’m sorry, boy,” she said to the cat sadly, “I’ve had things on my mind.”
“That stupid book of yours is more important to you than I am,” Mittens purred loudly, “ever since Clive died you’ve done nothing but sit in that room, staring at that screen.”
Mary picked up a fork and punctured the plastic on her ready meal before placing it in the microwave and setting the timer for three minutes, “I’ve got to finish the story,” Mary sighed, walking away from the cat, “If I don’t, then who else will?”
“Does it really matter if you finish the story?” Mittens asked, following Mary into the spare room, “Clive’s dead – that’s how the story should end. Writing a tale about your love for each other might have been a good idea once, but all you’ve got left is a depressing story of loss and regret – no-one wants to read about that.”
“Someone might,” Mary said, taking a seat at her desk once again.
The cat jumped up onto the desk, seeming to read the words on the screen.
“So, are you going to stick to the truth?” he asked, “Are you going to write that Clive died and a part of you died too?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Mary said, her finger hovering over the keyboard but not actually touching the keys, “I just can’t think right now.”
“You could always change the ending,” Mittens suggested, “you know, make it more upbeat. Just because Clive is dead it doesn’t mean he has to die in the book. You could write the happy ending that you always dreamed of.”
“But that would be a lie,” Mary said, her hands not moving from above the keyboard, “my readers wouldn’t believe my story unless it was true.”
“And how many readers do you actually have?” Mittens asked, “There’s what, three followers on your blog? Three sad losers who have been waiting more than four months for your latest update. They’ve probably given up by now, moved on to something new, like piano-playing cats. They probably won’t even realise when you upload your next entry.”
“Someone will notice,” Mary said sadly, “someone has to notice once I’m gone.”
Mittens stared at his owner, his head tilting to one side in a questioning fashion, “What do you mean by that? Once you’re gone? You’re not going anywhere.”
“I will be,” Mary said flatly, “once I finish this.”
Mary’s fingers fell to the keys and started to type. Mittens watched the words as they appeared on the screen and swallowed nervously.
“When Clive died in that car crash,” Mary wrote, “I didn’t know how I could live on without him. He’d been my guiding light, my one true friend, and the only person who supported me in my dream of becoming a writer. No one would publish me, so I fell to that old stand-by of writing a blog and uploading my stories there. This is the one story I wanted to tell; the story of Clive and my love for each other, but it wasn’t supposed to end like this.
“I don’t know what happened to the other driver – the driver who ran Clive’s car off the road – but I suspect he didn’t get half the sentence that I’ve been facing. The last four months has felt like umpteen life sentences without Clive, and even Mittens has abandoned me...”
“Hey!” Mittens interrupted Mary’s flow, “I’m still here.”
“But you don’t want to be,” Mary told him, hearing the microwave ping in the kitchen, “like you said, I’m in no fit state to feed you. Why don’t you go to those other people that have been taking care of you?”
“Because I like it here,” Mittens said as Mary stood up from her seat, the cat following her into the kitchen, “I want to stay here with you. Someone has to look out for you as well, you know. This has always been a reciprocal relationship.”
Mary chuckled, “That’s an odd thing for a cat to say,” Mary smiled, “no-one should have to rely on a pet for emotional advice.”
“My point is,” Mittens said, eyeing the ready meal as Mary took it from the microwave, “that you’re not alone. You have me.”
“I can’t rely on a cat for emotional support,” Mary shook her head as she peeled back the film from her meal, “it’s bad enough I think that you’re talking to me.”
Mittens meowed loudly, “I may not be talking to you,” he said, “but a part of you is. A part of your brain, no matter how small, is trying to talk you out of this.”
“Maybe,” Mary said, carrying the meal into the spare room and sitting back down at her laptop, “but it’s only a small part. A much larger part is telling me that this is what I have to do.”
Mary started to type again;
“...and even Mittens has abandoned me, moving on to a better place where he can still be fed by a loving family.
“As I said before, Clive was my guiding light, and without that light all I can see in my future is darkness. I can’t go on without him, and it’s taken me this long to realise that...”
Mary stopped typing and reached into a drawer in her desk, taking out a small yellow container filled with powder. The label on the container featured a sinister skull.
“What are you doing?” Mittens asked, pawing at the bottle as Mary tried to unscrew the cap.
“Something I should have done four months ago,” Mary told him, pouring the contents of the bottle over her meal before placing the now empty bottle neatly on the desk. She then resumed typing;
“So if you’re reading this, then I’ve logged my final entry on this blog. I hope you enjoyed the lighter moments of this story, and I’m sorry it had to end this way. Perhaps, once I’m gone, you’ll all understand.”
Mary pressed save on the word document then copied the text onto her blog, pressing save to update the entry.
“Thank you Mittens,” Mary said, sticking a fork into her tray of food.
Mittens stared at her, “What for?” he asked.
“For listening to me,” Mary said, eating a mouthful of the food, “for trying to be my voice of reason.”
“That wasn’t me,” Mittens told you, “what you’re hearing is your voice, your words, trying to tell you not to do this. But you wouldn’t listen.”
“What would be the point in listening?” Mary asked, swallowing her first mouthful before picking up another with her fork, “Why would I take advice from a mad woman.”
Originally Posted 1/6/2015
Result - Joint 5th Place
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