Lily Flower Wilting

Posted: February 7, 2015 in Short Stories
Tags: ,

A/N: Inspired by a late-night conversation had with a drunk man on the train about heartbreak and describing how it feels.

Dark desolate rooms, dilapidated furniture, the sounds of the ocean. She waits for him there, in their old shack. She looks through the broken glass, wondering whether she’ll laugh again, cry again…feel again. Hopelessly bruised, and battered are her hands, the hands of a sure sculptress, a love found only through care and precision.

He told her to stop numerous times, but she wouldn’t listen. Her art was her everything, her very life force that kept her here. Just like the ocean was his love, he seemed to adore it more than words could express, it held a purpose for him that no one but himself could figure out. She turns from the old windows, from the sea engulfing her. Waiting, watching she picks up a tool and begins to carve away her sadness, she begins to lose herself in the stone staring as if it were her last hope.

When night fell upon her work she could not see any more, getting from her old chair she shuffles, crippled by it, across the floor. Lighting candles she stops at her lover’s study, partly lit by the candle she was grasping with her old gnarled hands. Nothing had been touched in near ten years, too long she had waited for him to come home, too long she had been longing for the soft touch of his hands on her, too long she had lived without him.

The desk held secrets, dark and decaying, sad and sorry, she remembers their youth, the fancy clothes, the laughter and the love. They would go out every week, somewhere new and exciting, she thrived on his energy, his love for her. Now she longed for that light, that spark that kept her alive, the constant hope, the waiting.

Waiting, watching…Living, breathing…Hating, failing…Loving, losing…

She wished just once more she could here his voice, see his beautiful brown eyes, live in his light. She’s just sad, she just wants to sleep, she just wants to go home. She dies there in that old shack, waiting for him, her love.


He finally comes; she gave up on him too soon. He finds her body curled over her work, she finished it. She had nothing else to keep the sadness from consuming her. He cries with her then, his lover in his arms; he did not realize it was so long. She missed the human contact; maybe she thought he was never coming home. He always came back to her, his beautiful wife, the woman he married, his lily flower.

He buries her in the yard, he tends to her grave everyday. Growing amazing flowers all around her, as her tomb stone he places her work, a woman and a man curled up together on a rock. Carved into it read the words: She’s not dead she just went home.

Now he waits… to go home to her…

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