The Endless Wait

Written in October of 2006. MAN I AM OLD. Also haha oh wow how emo was I when I wrote this thing.


The thunder rolled in the distance as the sky darkened with rain. Slowly, droplets began to fall from the sky, dampening the ground and making the grass glimmer with what little sunlight could be seen through the clouds. The wind brought a bitter chill in with it, and the streetlights began to flicker on one-by-one.

An old swingset in a park creaked noisily as the chains moved back and forth, back and forth. The boy sitting on the swing clutched a crumpled piece of paper to his chest and looked up at the grey sky.

"Rain. Figures," he said bitterly, and tucked the paper into his jacket before sliding off the swing and walking away slowly, the rain permeating his shoes and soaking his feet.

He arrived at an old, run-down, abandoned house and opened the door. As he stepped inside, he shook off his coat and hung it on a hook by the door. He took off his shoes and overturned them, allowing them to drain and dry out. Sighing deeply, a moth-eaten couch welcomed him. He sat down and shut his eyes.

"He returned to the lonely place he called home," said the boy under his breath. "Now, where's my cat..." he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder and around the room. No cat. He sighed again and leaned back, the cold fingers of sleep trying to steal away his consciousness. His stomach gurgled, but he allowed himself to fall into a deep, dreamless, and troubled sleep. This time.

When he awoke, the rain was still pounding on the glass windows.

"Damn," he cursed under his breath. "Still raining. When's it gonna stop!" he cried, clenching his fist. He rose quickly from the couch and entered the musty kitchen. There was no food, but there were still old knives there. He seized a small sharp blade and trudged back to the couch. He was resolved this time. No one would stop him. He pressed the blade to the underside of his wrist and clenched his teeth.

No, you mustn't do that. I would be very disappointed if you did, a voice softly called.

"Shut up! You're not real!" the boy screamed. He pushed harder on the blade. "So much for promises!"

But I would be sad if you were to do something like that, the voice retorted.

"Dammit! Get out of my head, you hear?

Do not do this. I would be sad.

The boy's hands trembled, and the blade clattered to the floor. He held his head in his hands. "But why not? Why not? Tell me why I shouldn't just spill all of it? WHY!?" he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. But no one was kind enough to answer him. He was alone again. Just like always. Bitterly alone.

There was a soft mew, and then a cat climbed up on the couch. The feline rubbed the boy's hand with its head and purred.

"Oh... hey, Lonesome. Where've you been off to?" the boy asked. "..silly me. You can't talk. I wish... you could talk..."

The next morning brought a rainless sunrise, the grass glittering in the morning rays. The boy's eyes opened, and he sat up, stretching. "What a night... what a night..." he mumbled. He looked down by his feet to make sure his cat was there, and quietly got up.

The blade still lay on the floor. He slowly picked it up and took it back to the kitchen. As it slid back into the block, he sighed.

"Why do I always stop? Why can't I ever just do it? Why? Dammit!" he yelled. He pounded his fist into the counter. "I can't wait any longer!"

Later, the boy could be found on the same swing in the same park. Clutching the same piece of paper to his chest. It was this way day in, day out. Some people wondered if he was real. Gossip told of how crazy he was. People talked behind their hands about how he was always on that swing every day, for the last four years. But he was there. Always there. No one knew why.

Some days later, a girl about his age arrived in the city. She spent days asking around about a boy, about nineteen years of age, brown hair... Finally someone recognized his description and pointed the girl in the direction of the old beat-up house.

When she arrived, she opened the door and stepped inside, ushered in by silence. As she scanned the room with her eyes, her heart raced as she saw the couch. She looked closer, and she saw the boy curled up into a ball with the cat sleeping next to him. She smiled and shook the boy's shoulders, but he didn't wake up. The cat yawned, opened its eyes, and when it saw the girl, darted off the couch, dislodging a sheet of paper from the boy's hand. It had spots of red ink on it. The girl apprehensively (and by now very afraid) turned the boy over.

He was drowning in a sea of crimson. His hands, face, and shirt were covered in partially dried blood. And a knife was in right hand. The cut was long on his left wrist.

She stumbled back, the room spinning, and tried not to vomit. She finally gathered the courage to look again. This time, however, the paper caught her eyes. She slowly picked it up. As she read it, she felt her throat tightening up. Hot, stinging tears poured from her eyes.

The paper read:
"Dear Darling:
I have to go away for a time, but I promise you, as sure as the sun will rise, I will return for you. Wait for me.
Love, May"

And as her eyes rose from the paper, she saw the writing in his own blood on the wall:

the sun stopped rising today