Roux Bedrosian
It’s past three when I crawl beneath the covers. I’m alone and the bed is cold in a terrible, lonely way. I drag my blanket higher, however uselessly.
It’s easy to hear him in this ambient hour. He follows the same routine– he hogs the bathroom, then moves down the hall to den, light on his feet as to not disturb me. As if he ever could. I can hear footsteps descending, then desk drawers opening and journal pages rustling. Tonight, I hear them ripping, too; torn from their spine one by one. He must be confused, I think:
Forgetting he’s dead and how it happened. Looking for answers he never wrote down.
I’m nearly asleep when he arrives to bed. My eyes are closed, but I think he might be happy- finally happy. I even hope he’s smiling. I don’t dare look because I won’t see him gnarled up in a noose again, hissing breath out between shattered vertebrae. Nobody should see someone they love like that – let alone twice.
The mattress still sinks as he takes his side. Drifting off, I think about our wedding day – fodder for my dreams. We never had it, but I imagine it would’ve been nice. Instead, we had a nice funeral. A widow instead of a bride. Psychiatrists and Clonazepam and a suicide note over ‘happily ever after’.
By morning, he’s gone and the bed has thawed. Yet, I’m eager to freeze again while it means that parting at death is optional.
***
Roux Bedrosian is a New Jersey based musician, a lifelong creative writer, and a distinctly amateur adult. They hold a BA from Rutgers University, where they studied nothing about the art of writing. These days, they spend much of their time indulging in all the artistic endeavors that guidance counselors, former friends, and conservative relatives at unpleasant barbecues advised them against. In their fiction writing, they often enjoy exploring macabre topics through humorous, romantic, and absurd lenses. As an avid fan of horror, they seek out similar twists within the expansive genre as both a reader and viewer. At present, they have two cats, a growing collection of vinyl records, a handful of true-to-life ghost stories, and no regrets.