Too Old to Start Again

Sunday

“Your biggest achievement this year?”

“That I haven’t shot myself yet.”

His voice had never sounded so cold. But she remained unaffected by his words.

“You’re so predictable. Always so dramatic.”

She sent him a reassuring smile.

“There is must be something interesting, bold or new you’ve done this year.”


Sunday

He hesitated then spoke slowly.

“I thought about what you said.”

She was doing her nails.

“About what I’ve achieved this year.”

She nodded without looking in his direction.

“I bought a gun.”

He got her attention this time.

“You didn’t.”

He nodded.

“W-why?” she trembled. “When?”

“Last Wednesday. I kept it well hidden in a locked closet. Not easily reached so I wouldn’t be easily tempted.”

“Why? Damn it, what’s wrong with you?” She was going crazy. He looked away.


Sunday

“Maybe we’re just not meant to be happy.”

“Maybe we’re just not meant to be happy together.”

He was looking down.

“I’m not sure I know I can do that.”

“You’ll adapt. I promise.”


Sunday

“Are you still here?”

There was no answer on the other side.

“Please don’t do this.”

“I’m too old to start again.”

 

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Writer’s Block – Part III

Writer’s Block – Part I

Writer’s Block – Part II


Many clients, some secrets, his diary and the rain.

“You made it to the end of the first page. But does this first page set the scene for your story?” I think so.

“If your reader gets this far and says ‘so what’ you might want to go back and do a rewrite.”

He reads the page out loud, acting out the introductory scene.

They found his diary under his bed. All the confessions he never dared to share, everything was on this notebook. His fears, his fantasies, his loves, his clients. With the rainstorm outside, this was the perfect backdrop for the start of a thriller film.

He observed from his discrete looking how they searched his room, how the dog was sniffing his clothes, how the detective was reading intensively his darkest secrets. Years with a double identity. Years with a double life.

It was the ideal moment to run away but he found his feet glued to the ground. What was he still doing here? He was somehow drawn to the scene, his heart aching as they flipped his bed, emptied his drawers, found his hidden money, called for back-up. He must leave.

He took one final look at his beloved apartment. It was far from perfect, it has so many flaws but it was the only home he ever got.

His feet started to move backwards when he saw her crossing the street leading to his house. She was holding the bottle of wine she promised and he was going to bake the chocolate soufflé. He had to stop her from going in. He didn’t want her to find out this way. Or in any way. He had to make sure she wouldn’t reach the building.

This is not too bad. He smiles approvingly.

“Think of the final line of the chapter as the first line of the next chapter.”

He takes out a new page and writes down his new first line. He had to make sure she wouldn’t reach the building.

He stares at his brand new first page, excitement growing within him, butterflies in his stomach.

“The next chapter is a new story.”

The End