The Lost Girl

We rarely spoke, quickly adopting the template of an embittered married couple. I brought him his food and helped him to the toilet, carrying out menial tasks that required no conversation. Sometimes I’d close the door and eat my food in the kitchen just to avoid talking to him. I’d sit there, listening to him watch the television. There was an unspoken awkwardness between us, one neither of us could rightfully place. I couldn’t anyway. Not at first.

At the end of his first week, he mentioned the doll. I felt as though he had wanted to since arriving, I imagine the words had been nagging at his lips all day and night.

“What’s that?”

He knew exactly what it was. I glanced casually upwards from vacuuming. My hand gripped the side of his armchair.

“Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I do remember,” he said quietly, anger stirring in his face. “But I thought I’d have to be seeing things.”

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)