Reality Check

by Margaret I Holmes

The sky flames above me orange, red, black. Angry colours reflected in the darkening sea. The heavens blaze, burn. But I feel cold, shudderingly, numbingly cold. Isolated in a bubble of ice, I dig my toes into the ridges in the sand just to feel – something, anything. The ridges replicate ripples of the tide that has left them behind, just as I have been left behind. Cold and alone I stand on the abandoned shore. Abandoned
     I stare out to sea wondering how it would feel to walk out into that grey, rolling mass of water and have it close above my head blocking out the pain and grief that now engulfs me. Ending the desolation that threatens to overwhelm me? My muscles tense ready but I cannot take the first step towards the oblivion that I crave. Is this cowardice, scruples or acknowledging the responsibilities that I must confront?            
    Dimly I become aware of a growing anger welling up within me. How could he, knowing what I would have to face; the rest of my life, the children, everyone - alone? Without him. For he is gone, vanished from my life. I shall never hold his hand. Never laugh at the children’s antics with him. Share the daily happenings with him. Never lean on him however briefly feeling the strength and comfort of his arms around me
    Pain pierces the ice, agonising, searing pain that leaves me gasping from shock and anguish. I literally double up with grief. I sink to my knees on the wet sand grasping handfuls of it that oozes between my fingers. I am sobbing and ready to throw my head back and howl with the despair that I feel.
    Then suddenly, shockingly, intrusively the shrill sound of the phone in my pocket shatters the ice. Jolted back into the everyday world I take it from my pocket staring at it blankly. Slowly, automatically I fumble, uncoordinated, to press the answer button. My son's voice wails in bewilderment. “Mum, where are you? I'm hungry and so is Pippa. When will you be home? We want our dinner.”
    I stagger to my feet. They are numb, clumsy with cold, my skirt wet, flapping round my legs.
    “Get yourselves some biscuits from the cupboard. I’ll bring fish and chips home.” I hear my voice distantly as if from the bottom of a well.
    “Oh great!” says my son happily. Totally unaware of my anguish. Unaware as yet of the bombshell that will transform all our lives. I force my cold feet into my shoes and gathering the rags of my shattered life around me. I set off up the beach to the road.
    My heart might be broken. My children betrayed. Their lives about to be turned upside down. But, now they have to be fed.






475 words