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#NaNoWriMo2016 - Day Twenty-Two

3 min read

Poste Restante


Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here


22. Wells of Silence

She had to leave him. She couldn't be certain that she was making things worse, but she certainly didn't seem to be making things better. It was so painful to see the man she loved in a steady decline. All her attempts to help seemed to antagonise him and make him more secretive and defensive.

But she couldn't abandon him. She almost immediately regretted making him feel rejected. She knew he already felt completely isolated and alone, and leaving only made it worse, but she'd had to protect herself.

She stepped into the bedroom, invading his precious private sanctuary. It was dark but the scene was still horrific.

His body.

Laying awkwardly, his naked skin was purplish and yellow in parts, as if covered with terrible bruises. There was a paleness to the rest of his body where the blood had drained away completely. The small amount of flesh covering his bony frame had swelled, leaving his skin tight and shiny.

He was undoubtedly dead.

She didn't gasp, scream or flee the scene. Her mind reeled with a sense of responsibility. How could she protect him now? How could she defend this undignified end to his life? How would she deal with the police, family?

She scanned the room. There were so many things lying around that she wanted to pick up and dispose of that it was completely overwhelming. How could she stay here and deal with a cleanup operation, tip-toeing around his dead body?

Having stood rooted to the spot, surveying the scene, the situation was clearly hopeless. She wouldn't know where to begin. She left to phone the police. 

She didn't feel guilty that she hadn't been able to do more after he'd died, but she wasn't able to forgive herself for leaving him.

"What if I'd stayed?" she sobbed.

It wasn't her fault, the police, her trauma counsellor, her parents, her brothers and her friends all told her. How could they be so sure? How could they know whether things might have turned out differently if she hadn't left him?


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