Memento
A simple short story. Read, comment, and maybe call a therapist.
An old man walks into his small decaying house, with a newspaper in hand. He approaches the worn entryway and looks to the dead shrubs and dried, lifeless ground where a garden once was. He pushes open the door, nearly using all the strength he had, and walks inside.
The parlor he was now in, had rotten carpet and faded wallpaper, revealing where pictures had been hung by their squares of a brighter color. A vase of fake flowers sits on a small table, with its false life mocked the rest of the decor. The man continues into a small kitchen, equipped with old appliances, unwashed dishes, and a small table set for two. He sets the newspaper on the table and begins heating water for tea. Waiting, he looks out the window with his sunken brown eyes and sees nothing more than the overgrown dividing hedge bordering his property and his neighbor's. He imagines he hears children laughing on the other side of the hedge, but his hearing was lost years ago.
He continues watching until an aged white cat brushes up against his leg, and he realizes that the water is ready. He takes his trembling, bony hand and rubs it over his head, where hair had ceased long before, and had been replaced by thin pale skin, nearly transparent and revealing certain points of his skull. He took up the kettle and began pouring it into a used cup. After, he set that on the table and went to fetch the tea from the cabinets. This minimal activity drained him as he acquired the tea.
As he sat, dipping the bag in the steaming water, a train passed, rattling the empty chair opposite the man. He took the bag and set it on his spoon, and reached for the paper. As he did, pain shot through his arm, normal, so he paid it no mind and held the newspaper up. His sight focused and faded, and he could not read anything but the headlines. With trembling hands, he turned page after page and finally stopped at the last page. He looked over the smiling faces of the people in portraits, each one looking so happy, so energetic. After he surveyed every one of the portraits, he looked at the page title "Obituaries".
As he began to close the paper, his arm collided with the cup and it spilled onto his left hand. He quickly groaned and grabbed for his hand and doing so, brushed against a simple gold ring on his finger. The pain subsided, and he focused all he could, on this ring and all the memories it stirred about as he slowly turned it on his finger. A tear slipped from his eye, and made its way to his mouth and the salty taste brought him back to reality. His agape mouth closed, and he stood up. Step by step, he made his way to the parlor closet and took out an olive colored jacket and a brown hat. He donned them, then slipped a small folded piece of paper into his jacket pocket. Then he headed to the door.
The man slowly walked along the sidewalk, passing people he did not know. His eyes looked as far forward as they could, but still held gaze only a few feet in front of him. An hour passed, and still the man pressed onwards. Eventually he came to the railroad crossing, and instead of continuing past, he followed the track.
He kept walking, and keeping memories in his mind as he did. Memories of his life, when he had his strength, when he had his senses, when he had his love. Then, he was suddenly awoke by a train whistle. This time he looked straight ahead at it. It was approaching quickly. The man held his ground. The train kept pace towards him, blowing the whistle repeatedly. Another tear escaped the corner of his eye, following the same path as the last one that had. As the train came closer to him, his heart pained and he fell to the ground, the train passing over his thin body. When it was gone, the man lay dead, with his memories carrying him to safety.
The parlor he was now in, had rotten carpet and faded wallpaper, revealing where pictures had been hung by their squares of a brighter color. A vase of fake flowers sits on a small table, with its false life mocked the rest of the decor. The man continues into a small kitchen, equipped with old appliances, unwashed dishes, and a small table set for two. He sets the newspaper on the table and begins heating water for tea. Waiting, he looks out the window with his sunken brown eyes and sees nothing more than the overgrown dividing hedge bordering his property and his neighbor's. He imagines he hears children laughing on the other side of the hedge, but his hearing was lost years ago.
He continues watching until an aged white cat brushes up against his leg, and he realizes that the water is ready. He takes his trembling, bony hand and rubs it over his head, where hair had ceased long before, and had been replaced by thin pale skin, nearly transparent and revealing certain points of his skull. He took up the kettle and began pouring it into a used cup. After, he set that on the table and went to fetch the tea from the cabinets. This minimal activity drained him as he acquired the tea.
As he sat, dipping the bag in the steaming water, a train passed, rattling the empty chair opposite the man. He took the bag and set it on his spoon, and reached for the paper. As he did, pain shot through his arm, normal, so he paid it no mind and held the newspaper up. His sight focused and faded, and he could not read anything but the headlines. With trembling hands, he turned page after page and finally stopped at the last page. He looked over the smiling faces of the people in portraits, each one looking so happy, so energetic. After he surveyed every one of the portraits, he looked at the page title "Obituaries".
As he began to close the paper, his arm collided with the cup and it spilled onto his left hand. He quickly groaned and grabbed for his hand and doing so, brushed against a simple gold ring on his finger. The pain subsided, and he focused all he could, on this ring and all the memories it stirred about as he slowly turned it on his finger. A tear slipped from his eye, and made its way to his mouth and the salty taste brought him back to reality. His agape mouth closed, and he stood up. Step by step, he made his way to the parlor closet and took out an olive colored jacket and a brown hat. He donned them, then slipped a small folded piece of paper into his jacket pocket. Then he headed to the door.
The man slowly walked along the sidewalk, passing people he did not know. His eyes looked as far forward as they could, but still held gaze only a few feet in front of him. An hour passed, and still the man pressed onwards. Eventually he came to the railroad crossing, and instead of continuing past, he followed the track.
He kept walking, and keeping memories in his mind as he did. Memories of his life, when he had his strength, when he had his senses, when he had his love. Then, he was suddenly awoke by a train whistle. This time he looked straight ahead at it. It was approaching quickly. The man held his ground. The train kept pace towards him, blowing the whistle repeatedly. Another tear escaped the corner of his eye, following the same path as the last one that had. As the train came closer to him, his heart pained and he fell to the ground, the train passing over his thin body. When it was gone, the man lay dead, with his memories carrying him to safety.
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