CHAPTER 2: THE FIRST DAY ALONE.
576 Words
The next morning, Chloe woke to the sound of the alarm. It rang sharply, almost painfully, at 7 a.m., but she barely moved to turn it off. When she finally silenced it, she sat on the edge of the bed, her body heavy, her eyes swollen and red from yesterday’s tears. Her pajamas were still damp from the sobs she hadn’t bothered to wipe away.
She glanced around the bedroom. Empty. That was how she felt inside. The memories of the previous day pressed down on her, suffocating, inescapable.
She rose unsteadily and walked to the mirror. Her reflection startled her: pale, worn, eyes rimmed with red. “I’m a mess,” she whispered. Her voice sounded foreign even to her.
Eventually, she dragged herself into the kitchen. The meal from yesterday still sat untouched, cold and forgotten on the counter. Chloe’s chest tightened as she brewed a cup of coffee, the steam rising but offering no warmth. She took a small sip, more out of habit than desire, and let the cup sit on the counter.
A soft knock at the door made her jump. Her heart pounded. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and she didn’t want anyone.
When she opened it, she saw Devan, the policeman from yesterday. “Good morning, Miss Harris,” he said quietly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. His eyes swept the room, taking in the untouched dishes, the crumpled blanket, the photograph still lying on the table.
Chloe gave a weak, nonchalant nod. “Oh… it’s you,” she murmured, stepping aside.
Devan moved toward the table and gently placed a folder in front of her. “I need you to fill out these forms,” he said softly. “It’s paperwork for the funeral and other formalities. I know this is difficult, but it has to be done.”
Chloe stared at the forms. The word widow stared back at her in black ink, and a hollow laugh escaped her lips. “Right,” she said, voice tight. “I’m a widow now.”
She picked up the pen Devan handed her and began to fill in the papers slowly, her hand trembling. Her writing was uneven, shaky… nothing like her usual neat script.
Devan stood quietly by the table, giving her space, his expression sympathetic but professional. “Take your time,” he said gently.
Hours seemed to pass as she moved through the forms. When she finished, she pushed them back toward him. Devan collected the folder and nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “The funeral home will contact you soon to discuss arrangements. If you need anything in the meantime… here is my number.” He placed a small card on the table.
Chloe didn’t look at it. She simply sank onto the couch, exhausted, the weight of reality pressing down on her.
The house was silent again. No footsteps. No laughter. No Frank. Just silence. She stared at the untouched coffee, at the photograph of him smiling, at the shoes by the door that would never move again.
Her throat tightened as she whispered, “Frank… what do I do now?”
She pressed her hands to her face and let the tears fall freely. The forms on the table, the paperwork, the phone calls — they all waited. Today, all she could do was grieve.
Tomorrow… tomorrow she will face the funeral arrangements. Today, she allowed herself nothing but sorrow.
- Writer
