The prompt for this piece was ‘outside the window’, and I sat down at 9pm last night and just wrote it. I put little thought into where it would go, I was even sure where it started. I shut my eyes, looked out of the window of my imagination and typed. This is not my first attempt at fiction but is the first piece of flash fiction I have written… particularly the first piece of fiction for public consumption.
As the snowflakes settled on the icy path, she wondered where he was now. He had only been gone for three days, but those three days seemed as if they had lasted an eternity. He had said he didn’t know how long he would be gone for but that he absolutely had to go. It was necessary, apparently. It was important enough to leave her alone.
They had moved into the isolated cottage just weeks before Christmas, their third Christmas together. The Christmas they had hoped to be spending as parents. Despite the trying, they still hadn’t achieved their goal. And she always felt like something was missing. She still yearned to become a mother.
The snowflakes were falling faster now as she pondered the relationship she found herself in. In the beginning, he was attentive, caring; she could tell he wanted to be a part of her life. Now, though, she felt him growing increasingly distant. Like there was something he wasn’t telling her. Something important.
They had bought their dream home, or so she thought. Just weeks after moving into it, he seemed agitated. His reaction to the cottage seemed to juxtapose against her own. To her, it felt like she had returned home. There were a few problems here and there. It needed some repairs to the great oak beams and the draughty windows, but it was home.
Outside the window, she watched the garden disappear under a blanket of white snow, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself as if defending herself from the cold outside. With one great sob, her shoulders shuddered. She relented and let her grief take the lead.
He wasn’t returning. She knew that deep down if she was honest with herself. She wouldn’t see him snoring gently in their bed again. Nor would she cook his breakfast before calling to softly that it was time to get up. She understood that now. Accepted it, even. She knew its next victim had been claimed.