In an effort to move on from a painful past, Randy decides to put his photography skills to good use and advertises for a model in the local paper. Little does he realize that a sexy photo shoot would be just the thing to reunite with his childhood sweetheart, begging the question—does time heal all wounds?
“Whoa!” Randy nearly rolled off the couch with a jolt. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He scanned the room quickly, checking for intruders hidden in the shadows. But there were none. Just him. He ripped his oversized sweatshirt off and tossed it through the air. He felt hot and sweaty, as if he had just run a marathon. He glanced around the room. The clock showed 11:15 PM.
He shook his head. He knew he’d have been better off sleeping in his bed, as his upper back would thank him. But some nights he couldn’t take being in the bedroom. The room suffocated him with its quietness and overabundance of memories. The house felt too big for one person. Perfect for a family―something he didn’t have. That simple fact hurt a lot, more than the scar on his leg from his times overseas. Ever since he gave Quincy back to his in-laws, the idea of getting another pet flew around in his brain from time to time. He just didn’t want the responsibility. Not now. He scratched his head. If he had a cigarette he’d smoke it. Anything to take the edge off. He could always go into the basement and go a round with the punching bag, which was a great way to burn off some steam. But Randy also knew if he started punching the bag, he’d never be able to get back to sleep. That would be as relaxing as drinking five cups of coffee.
He removed a book off the case, a book about dream interpretation. Not that he ever believed in those foo foo things. His wife had enjoyed dream interpretation and astrology, and the book belonged to her. He began to look inside before slamming it shut. What would the book tell him that he didn’t know already? Insight he didn’t need. Another obstacle dream. If he wasn’t in the boxing ring, then he couldn’t find his car, or he opened his mouth and couldn’t scream.
“Fucking dreams.” Only difference this time was he was about to see the hidden enemy’s face, which became clear just as he woke up. Probably the truck driver. Always the truck driver. He didn’t know which was worse―the hours he struggled to sleep or the time he spent awake scrambling to keep busy in order not to think.
His head hurt, and so did his neck, from sleeping at a strange angle. He had imprints on his cheek, as if he’d wrestled with his pillows.
He splashed some water on his face and headed to the liquor cabinet. Randy examined the growing collection of beer, wine, and spirits he’d acquired over the last few years before selecting a bottle of German ale. It would settle his nerves, but he’d be somewhat the worse for wear came tomorrow morning. He rubbed his temples. His head began to pulse already just looking at drinks.
“Oh well,” he said to himself. He’d trade his health for sleep. Who was it that told him you couldn’t have everything in life? Well whoever said it was damned right. Although the way things were going he didn’t feel like he had much left to lose anyway.
The clock flashed the time―a little after midnight.
“Time goes by when you’re having fun,” he said with a sniff. It was way too late to call his old army pals. He couldn’t risk waking up his brother, not now that he kept regular hours. James had traded in his wild musician days for the trappings of stability―a 9 to 5 job with a wife and kids.
“James, a father and a husband. My crazy little brother. Instead of me,” he said aloud, shaking his head at the painful injustice.
“Damn.”
Randy loved his brother and didn’t deny him his happiness. Yet he’d never anticipated life would rob him of the very same joy. It felt like he’d been through the emotional ringer and thrown to the birds. And it hurt like hell.
He looked at the fireplace mantel, at the collection of photos, all taken at different times of his life. He drummed his fingers against the tabletop. A part of getting older meant losing touch with people from the past, friends he’d imagined he’d have forever. Now that he’d lost his family, who else could he call at this time of night? His wife always knew just what to say to settle his nerves. Who else could help him―offer him hope that all would be all right? Wake him up out of this nightmare that had become his life. Each night he went to sleep in an empty bed and woke up to an even more empty home. Besides the sounds of crickets and the refrigerator’s hum, complete and total silence assaulted his ears.
Right after she died, he woke up calling out for her in the darkness. His wife’s name formed a permanent place at the tip of his tongue. Saying it only made him feel worse. Everything reminded him of her and that day. The life they should have had. but never would. Not ever. And that was something for which he could never forgive himself. He hadn’t been driving the truck and hadn’t fallen asleep behind the wheel, but he still assumed culpability. If he’d just gone home with her cinnamon pretzels like she asked…
