She Never Smiles - A Short Story

For two weeks after, I’d had the same dream over and over.
I read once that having the same dream over and over makes the dream seem worse. But I may have just dreamt it.
I call it a dream, but in reality, it was more like a nightmare. I always awoke at the same point.
The doctor didn’t seem interested when I told him. When do they? He only looked at me when I left the room. I guess he wanted to make sure I’d left. Another hypochondriac busying up his already hectic day.
The more I dreamt about the event, the less slept. In a few more weeks I’d be a clinical insomniac. And I loved sleep. Or at least I used to.
I’ve been thinking about that last sentence. The word event doesn’t seem right. It insufficiently describes the.... what word is suitable. Are words suitable to describe such a thing? At this stage in a story most readers are wondering what happened. Why it’s being written about. That’s the key with writing something down, or filming it, or singing about it, or painting it. It has to be significant enough.
Maybe you’re wondering if someone died. Maybe you’re hoping someone did die. If you, that says more about you than it does me.
I work in sales. Cold calling, but not normal people at home. That’s where I draw the line. We all have a line and that’s where mine is. I’m ok with calling businesses, its part of their job to take cold calls. They might not like it, but that’s part of life.
After each call I’d fantasise about what the voice on the end of the phone looked like. What they smelt like. Whether they were attractive or not. I usually judge by their voice. However, when a voice sounds attractive it usually means they’re not. That’s the rule.
She was the exception that proved the rule. She was the one. At least that’s what I convinced myself.
I have a problem. It’s a confidence thing. Most people have a confidence problem. Most people don’t deal with them the way I do. I ogle people in the office. Picturing them in compromising positions. Convincing myself they liked me.
She didn’t like me.
It was about a month before the event. I’m still not happy with that word, but cannot think of a better way to describe it. I wish I could. I made a decision which led me to where I am now.
Maybe if the doctor had helped. Maybe if I’d recognised my condition earlier. But these questions are irrelevant now. The answer illusive; redundant.
She wasn’t typically beautiful. But she did pay me attention. Clearly too much.
I need to make it clear, this is not a confession. For a confession you need to be repentant.
I’d taken to leaving work early. Finding excuses to leave. My boss thought I might be dying. Cancer she worried. I played along. Not my finest hour, but small fry compared to what would happen.
I didn’t know she find me there. I needed time, I thought I had it. But she’d been sent home early from work.
My dream begins with that look on her face. I might never forget. It haunts me even more that the last look I saw.
She had such beautiful eyes; Hypnotic. I remember the first time we met. The first time I saw those eyes. Every time I thought of her, those eyes, piercing to my soul. I felt like she saw me for who I really was. Am.
I didn’t hear her come in the door. I don’t know why. I didn’t even hear the door close. What I heard. What changed everything was the phone call.
“I’ve got the results” Is what she said. Then she cried. For 15 minutes I stood at the top of the stairs watching her cry. Those uncontrollable tears falling down her flushed cheeks. The phone resting liking a dead pet in her hand. There must have been someone on the other end the whole time trying to console her.
I wanted to console her. I wanted to be the guy who was there for her. I could have put my arms around her. I could whisper in her ear that I’d be there for her until the very end.
I’d have told her I loved her long dark shiny hair. Hair like the models in shampoo adverts. I never believed women really had hair so good. She did. But not for much longer.
“I’ll still love you when you hair falls out. I’ll still love you when you can’t control the sickness. I’ll love you more because that’s what you deserve. And that’s what you’ll need.” This is what I would like to have said. This is what I want to whisper in her ear. Instead I just watched.
I always just watch.
The nightmares haven’t gone. There still there. Time is the greatest healer they say. Not in my case. Everyday is the same as the next day; the day after. The day my conscience reminded me what I’d done.
I tried telling myself it was an accident. That I didn’t mean it. But I did, I know that now. Through all the sickness and drinking and smoking and pain. I knew I meant it. That’s what haunts me.
She deserved so much more. She deserved the best. I wanted to give it to her but she didn’t want it. Then it happened.
I’ve had the same dream for two years now. Those eyes, the blood. Maybe I did her a favour. Saved her the misery, the pain, the humiliation. The degradation. These are the things I tell myself to get me through each day.
Those tears, her body slumped at the bottom of the stairs. She would have had more of that. She might have had the strength but how can anyone know. No one will now. But at least if it had killed her. If little by little it had eaten her insides. Destroyed that which made her beautiful. That which gave her the sparkle in her eyes. Then I would be justified.
I couldn’t have seen her like that. Maybe it was for the best.
These are thoughts that race through my head as I try to sleep. Insomnia creeping ever slowly over me, like a disease infecting my mind. I lay awake, the moon glistening in my eyes.
I close my eyes and she stare at me. I want her smile but she never will. I can try and make her, but it will never happen. The memory, the image, it’s always the same.
She never smiles, not anymore.
The End.