Fiction logo

Days gone by

A short story in memory of a very special lady.

By Sophia Ashton-HookerPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
3
Marigold flowers

I wake up hazy, consumed by the remnants of deeply invested dreams. Feelings of warmth and pleasure start to fade subtly and slowly, but far faster than I would wish. I was with Martin last night, as I so often am in my sleeping hours. I shut my eyes tightly now and will myself back there, to a time when he was still with me. We are walking on the promenade near Brighton beach, where we would spend our time together before he was called up to serve. We were so young then, full of energy and laughter. Somehow the dreams are always sweet memories, only happy times that feel so intense it’s as if they are my true reality, richer and more colourful than the life I find myself experiencing in the present.

I open my eyes again. It is no use. With every waking moment he slips farther from me and back into the past, leaving me here, unable to bring him with me. I blink and look around the dark room, confused. Where is my bureau, with its little china boxes and knick knacks? I don’t see my gold mirror either and that window is in the wrong place entirely. My eyes settle on unfamiliar shapes and heavy curtains whose patterns seem out of place and slightly sinister in the early morning light. Sneaking a hand out from beneath the covers, I fumble to my right looking for the light switch. My knuckle hits something solid and plasticky. The bed crumples strangely as I pull myself up to a sitting position, using the squidgy plastic thing as leverage.

This isn’t my bed! I shake my head, something very odd is going on here. I reach across the plastic, which I now realise seems to be some sort of cover for the high side of the bed, and tug at the heavy velvet curtain. The light spills in and through the window I can see my front garden. I sit back in relief and cast my eyes around the room with new understanding. I am in my living room. There is the stone fireplace, complete with the various ornaments that we have collected over the years. Two matching armchairs face it, one more worn than the other. The television sits in the far corner and opposite me is the yellow door leading to our little kitchen. My chest feels tight. I close my eyes and try to take deep breaths. I just got confused, that’s all. Though this bed is still strange, I frown to myself, why am I sleeping in my living room? I must remember to ask Martin when he comes home.

I wake up groggy and too hot. The sun is blinding me, pouring in through the curtains that someone has carelessly left open. I reach over the bed rails and yank them closed crossly. My neck feels stiff. The pillows are all wrong. I try to adjust them but can’t seem to manage. I call out for Martin to come and help me, but he must have gone out as no one comes. My throat feels dry. There is a glass of water on the little table next to me. I reach for it, my hand brushes past something cool and soft. It’s a flower, sitting in my glass of water. I take it out and put it on the table. It’s petals shed wistfully, disturbed by the tremors that move unconsciously through my fingers. I pick up the flower again and bring it close to my face. It’s scent is sickly and the stem feels soft and slimy. I can’t remember the name of this flower, although it seems very familiar.

The television is on. The girl must have done that. She think I like it, but I don’t. There is a flower on my lap, a Marigold. Martin used to grow these in our garden, when he was still alive. The petals have come off and made a sunny pattern across the bedspread, it reminds me of when I was a girl. I used to make perfume from the petals and sell it to the neighbours.

Oh, Martin! How you would have laughed at me.

My gaze finds the clock on the mantle piece, the one you bought me for my sixtieth birthday. Gosh, that seems only yesterday, doesn’t it?

You’re awfully quiet today, aren’t you? Martin?

I can’t understand what’s up with him these days, we used to sit and talk for hours.

Short Story
3

About the Creator

Sophia Ashton-Hooker

Oxford based writer

Imagination is the key to a magical life

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.