Wading

This was just an exploration of a character that I wrote once, but I thought that it turned out nicely. It’s a reflection and a remembrance, of things loved and lost.

I’m wading through waist deep water. It’s colder than I expected, and deeper. If it were warmer, I’d say there would probably be mosquitoes and snakes, maybe an alligator. Mud squelches unpleasantly beneath my bare feet. I’m thinking about the choices I made that got me here, I’m thinking about you.

If I’d stayed with you, I wouldn’t be here, slogging through thick, stagnant water. I reach the other side and climb out, tugging my clothes on. If I’d accepted your offer, I’d be warm in bed right now, snuggled up next to you. Instead I’m out here in the wild, crawling through this godforsaken bog, shivering in the pervasive damp, soaked to the skin.

I think about the comfortable life that could have been mine. We’d have a kitten, a puppy and two children. I name them Katherine and William. The children would have my hair and your eyes. I’d greet you at the door with a drink every night when you got home, although somehow I can’t remember what your favorite is anymore. I’d make you perfect macrobiotic meals. I’d sleep in security, warm and safe, knowing you were there, protecting me. This is what you had envisioned, what I’ve given up.

Instead, I’m crawling through the mud, running from some unknown horror, thinking that I could have avoided all this if I’d just let you take me away and make me normal. The howls grow louder behind me, and I can just make out the warm halo of light from a window. I rise and sprint the rest of the way to the small shack, wrenching open the door and throwing myself inside just as the ghoul lunges for me. It snarls at me, and I laugh in its face for a second before slamming the door.

I prepare to spend the night in relative comfort. Nothing compared to what you could have given me. As I’m falling asleep, I think, ‘I’m glad. I would’ve been so bored.’