The scribblings of a widower in his sixties who has discovered the therapy of the written word. Join me on my journey from grief to satisfaction and how I eventually got there.
About me
I am a sixty-five-year-old widower, (In 2023). I discovered writing to cope with the grief of losing my wife of thirty-five years to cancer. I began by writing my first short story, The Slow Cooker (Link to the story here).https://scatterbrianblogs.com/the-slow-cooker/
This was followed by a story about each of the five stages of grief. Here I am, over one hundred and fifty stories later and four novels in progress.
Follow me on my journey, whether you’re a fellow sufferer or just keen on a story.
READ MY NOVELLA; THE PAINTING, FREE!
Read how a young Scotsman falls in love with a woman in his dreams, to discover that she exists when he meets an old Egyptian painter. Read about how their meeting saves the world from nuclear war.
Today’s Story
White:
With the final blow it came–no more pain, only peace. After months of torment Soraya finally got her wish–death.
***
The young woman opened her eyes to pure whiteness, her hands folded on her chest. She held one up in front of her face. Four fingers and one thumb, all intact. She turned it and inspected the carefully manicured nails, all present. Lifting the other hand, she repeated the process–same. A strange feeling of satisfaction washed over her. Perfection. She used the sense of touch for the next process, bringing both hands to her face; probing, stroking, searching for–what? Everything was in place and the only sensation was the touch of her own soft skin.
Closing her eyes, she ran the fingertips over each eyelid and eyebrow. In a symmetrical motion, she stroked her brow and temples, then down to her cheekbones. The fingers of each hand met above the bridge of her nose as she caressed it. Next her lips and chin, tracing their unique shape and finally, she took each ear between thumb and index finger and squeezed gently. To each touch, there was no reaction other than the trace of her own presence. What was she looking for? Something was missing but she couldn’t recall it.
The young woman lifted the white sheet and inspected her naked body. She repeated the process, on every part of it, as she had done with her face–same.
Swinging her legs from the bed, she sat upright. Satisfied with her self-inspection, she turned her attention to her surroundings.
First, she slid her feet into the white slippers on which they were standing. Then, she stood up with one smooth, graceful motion. To her left was a white chair on which was placed a folded white garment. She picked it up, unfolded it and placed the soft cotton nightdress over her head. Smoothing the material over the curves of her body, she subconsciously searched for a mirror. There wasn’t one.The room was pure white, such that she could barely make out its shape, dimensions or equally white contents. Although there was light, its source was indeterminate. There was no window or lamp. In one corner stood a desk and chair. On the desk sat the one object absent of whiteness, a large, brown leather-bound book.
Dragging her eyes away from the alien object, the young woman searched the walls for a door. There seemed to be no appearance of one in the four white walls, a fact confirmed by a circuit of the room, using her hands to feel for the slightest trace of an imperfection.
Returning from her surroundings to herself, she sat on the bed and closed her eyes. She began to search the room of her own mind. It was equally as blank, white and featureless. All except one image, the book. Opening her eyes, she looked across at the real thing. It stood out like a bloodstain on a white sheet–bloodstain!
She stood up abruptly and repeated the process of self inspection, nothing. Suddenly, her mouth was dry. She opened it and tried to make a sound. A faint creak rose from her throat. It was then that she noticed the cup and bottle, both white, on the bedside table. The water contained in the bottle was cool and sweet as it soothed her arid throat.
“Aaaahhhh,” she called clearly. The sound was immediately absorbed into the silence which had accompanied her appearance here. She placed the cup on the table and approached the desk. The presence and intricate detail on the book cover hurt her eyes, which had been born into a pure white world.
Words decorated the cover. Words she could understand. She traced each letter with her fingers.
“The Broken Doll,”
she uttered out loud. The first words to grace her lips in this strange world. Opening the cover, she sat down and began to read…
Prologue
Everything I am about to tell you is the truth Soraya-Jan. I can be sure of this as I witnessed every detail with my own eyes. My name is Shahid Hedayati, or should I say was, when this saga began. I knew I was destined to tell this story from the moment I was born. I no longer have a name.
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Read my other stories from past days.