yardbird | ✘ lost in the flames

The cutting board drops, clattering across the linoleum. Murphy retreats out of the kitchen before inhaling too much dust, covering his mouth with the back of his arm. From there, he limps into the hallway.

It's then that Murphy notices all of the strange dissimilarities from his home as he had known it. For one thing, there are loads of boxes everywhere. Most of their things, stuff that belonged to him and his wife, are all packed. The walls are bare of memories and photographs. No child's drawings from Charlie's first day of school.

What more, it looks as though someone's been in the bathroom recently. The sound of running water summons him to door near the end of the hall. The door is left slightly ajar, with mist clouding the ceiling overhead. Murphy can't see his reflection in the fogged up mirror as he approaches the doorway. Though, scrawled over the surface and steam, the glass bears a familiar message:

Can't keep my head above water.
The bathtub is still running, and most likely has been for some time. Water flows to the brim. When Murphy enters, his feet splash over the flooded floor, which has begun soaking into the carpet.

Murphy goes to draw the curtains open, yet doesn't find anything particular. Except that no one is there to occupy the bathtub. Strange. He turns his head to the valves, then reaches for it to shut off the continual running water--

Hands whip out from behind him. All Murphy catches is a brief reflection of black hair behind a masked face. The next, his head is dunked into the lukewarm bath.

Panic sinks in. Then something else. He flails, attempting to push himself out for air by grabbing the brim. His fingers slip. When that fails, he goes to reach over his shoulder. Too far. What holds him with sharp fingernails has no intentions of letting him come up for air.

Can't keep my head above water...

He doesn't count the seconds. But they had to have turned into minutes by then, torturing him with every agonizing moment he tries to come up for air. By then, his lungs are full of fire. His skin burns, and it isn't the lukewarm water's doing, but the inevitability and defeat. He pushes himself up for air. The panic evolves something more. It's the terror of breathing in for air, only to suffocate under the foolish weight of his impulse. The hands clutching his shoulders grip tighter, digging fingernails through Murphy's shirt. Blood oozes down his arms. His wounds were going to burst, he knew it. And the worst part is how that would be the least of his concerns.

Muscle spasms now. Losing control over his own reflexes, he flips like a dying fish, caught in a desperate struggle between life and death. What concerns him now is the eventual blackness that closes in, clouding his mind and easing his fears. Whatever has him, whatever is keeping him under, does so in vitriol and wants him dead. So why fight? He's so tired of fighting.

He's so tired...

It must have been when the hands released him, pulled him out of water, thrown him onto his back... When Murphy comes to, he's staring up at a dying lamplight that hung over the ceiling.

He hated that light. It always burns out too easily. The landlord had told them that the building was old, though recently renovated, so there was nothing to worry about. Cost was cheap back then. Murphy and Carol had come house searching at a convenient time. They were just starting out their lives, readying to bring a new one into the world, and then...

Murphy chokes out a cough. Then, he chokes up water. He flops over the floor, arms supporting him while he spits most of the water he had inhaled from the bathtub. After several seconds of hysterical wheezing, Murphy is too tired to even move. Every inch of him aches. Between the injuries he had already sustained, and all that had happened so far, a little reprieve is all he asks. It's all he ever asked for.

Knowing that he hasn't earned that luxury, he moves on. Or tries to. Murphy helps himself onto his feet, grabbing the sink for support. Something shifts behind him. He doesn't even bother looking in the reflection of the misty mirror. Just turns around, to see a shape that's blocking the doorway.

POP!

That damn light. Always burning out at the most inappropriate times.

Not that he needs it. When the silhouette steps back, the rest of her is revealed. To Murphy, it might as well be as clear as daylight. He doesn't need to see her in order to recognize the one person who mattered to him the most for so long. Who forgave him for all the things that he had done, even when she had no reason to. His best friend. Lover. His wife.

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✘ lost in the flames

{A Strangely Shining Light | Part III.}