Welcome to Oblivion

He was numb. Not a 'gosh its cold', 'Ouch, I hate the dentist' numb, but a mind chilling, muscle freezing, shock inducing, emotional numb. 3 hours, 4 minutes, 37 seconds. He had been sitting on the horrible peach lounge for 3 hours, 4 minutes and 37 seconds: numb. Frozen in time and place, the world outside, busy suberbia with its noise and bustle, had ceased to exist. The cornflakes still sat on the counter; her hairbrush abandoned next to them. It simply didn't matter, dimmed to invisible in the light of his new priority: dealing with each minute as it came. 1

He hadn't cried yet. Couldn't. But his shattered world hung around him, the broken shards digging at his broken heart. She was gone. Not coming back. Ever. It was too hard. The second reality hit home and the tears broke through his carefully constructed walls, crashed down his smooth cheeks in a tidal wave of raw emotion. 2

Four minutes, he sobbed. Clutching his arms round his chest. But nothing lasts forever: he realised that now; and soon the watery abominations ebbed, wet trails still clinging to the sharp contours of his face. 3

His chest throbbed. The pain was sharp: thumping in time with the old grandfather clock, one of those old ones that still needed to be wound. He grabbed the glass sitting on the table and pegged it into the antique front of the oak heirloom. The wood splintered and smashed, flying over the floor. Broken.4

His eyes darted to the liquor cabinet. Soon his third shot of tequila sat in the glass. It didn't have to wait long to drag a bitter burning trail down his throat. It was cheap. Cheap tequila for his newly acquired cheap life. That fit, even made sense. Cheap tequila to fix deep problems. Probably not such a great idea. Who cared? He sure didn't. 5

His brain played out the scenes from the afternoon. Sickeningly slow in technicolour. She had gone to get milk. He'd complained: cornflakes without milk was just not right. With a long-suffering smile, she'd grabbed the keys and shot him a playful wink before she ducked into the old Toyota and backed out. 6

Had she been wearing the cute red tank or that blue sweatshirt? It had been only hours ago, how could he forget? Tank or sweatshirt hadn't mattered when later a knock on the door broke him out of his worried frenzy. Police: grim faced; tight lipped; as happy to be there as he was to have them. He couldn't remember their exact words. But he remembered the sharp shooting pain in his chest; burying his face in his hands; losing it. 7

“I'm sorry...drunk driver...no chance.”8

Their first two words had destroyed his perfectly balanced life, leaving him with cheap tequila and bitterness as his only friends. He abandoned the shot glass and grabbed the bottle with one hand, another mouthful following the others. 9

Welcome to oblivion. 10