Promptings from Valhalla - 21. Prompt 367 - Emotion Challenge

Prompt 637 – Challenge
Tag – Emotion
No one enjoys dealing with the sad emotions. A breakup, a death, or even a serious illness can put a character through hell. Create a scene where your character is given some bad news and what happens when they are alone and process it. Remember to show and not tell. Bring the anguish alive for the reader.

A loud, blaring horn, followed by the screech of tires, made me realize I’d just driven through an intersection with four-way stop signs. I slammed on my brakes, coming to a halt with another car so close to my passenger side door that I couldn’t see the headlights. What I could see was the driver’s bright red face and wide-open eyes, along with the spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed at me.

“You fucking moron! You could have killed me! Those signs mean you’re supposed to STOP!”

I stared ahead. The rows of houses lining the street before me looked like a gauntlet. Shuttered windows looked like wide open eyes on either side of doorways reminiscent of mouths engaged in mocking laughter. Tree limbs in the front yards reached toward the street, pointing, knots in the trunk bulging like bellies shaking with smug schadenfreude.

Mr. Red Spittle-Face lay on the horn again. This time I couldn’t hear his tirade over the volume of the sustained noise. What was his problem? Didn’t he realize there were worse things in life than being stuck in an intersection?

“I’m afraid it’s Stage Four, Mr. Wilson. It’s spread to too many organs for surgery to be an option.”

Stage Four. Forty years old was supposed to be middle-aged.

“I’m sorry, but there are no treatment options. I’ll have our secretary set up an appointment with a representative from Hospice.”

Hospice? Hospice was for old people who were—

A keening wail escaped my lips as I struck every surface available to me with all four limbs in a tantrum worthy of any cranky two-year-old. When it was over, I sat with my chest heaving, then put the car into drive and headed down the gauntlet-like street. A few minutes later, I pulled into my driveway without further incident.

“It’s hard to determine prognosis, but in my opinion, based on my experience, I’d say we’re looking at a matter of months.”

I clutched the framed picture of Lucas and me on our last vacation, arms around each other’s waists, the clear blue Caribbean waters behind us, to my chest. The bottle of twenty-five year old Macallan scotch we’d been saving for a special occasion perched on the end table next to where I sat on our brown velvet couch. Its mere presence physically hurt. There would be no cause to drink it.

Months. Not years. Months. I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.

Is this what T.S. Eliot meant? I should have forty more years. Not four months. Or two. Or ten. I snorted and laughed. My body shook as hysterical laughter convulsed through me. My limbs felt like those of a wooden marionette. There must have been a puppet master in control, because I sure wasn’t.

Our trip to Europe wouldn’t happen. Neither would the back deck we were planning on building over the summer. Well, Lucas could still do that. Without me. I looked at the picture. My love’s face blurred, then I blinked, sending hot moisture cascading down my cheeks to spatter on the protective glass.

Lucas. How the hell was I supposed to tell him? I inhaled and wiped the tears away, sitting up straighter, gripping the frame until my knuckles turned white. I was the strong one. I needed to be brave for him. How I was going to do that when my insides felt like they were diving off a cliff was beyond me. But I would. Somehow. I had to.

The snick of the front door lock brought a resurgence of tears.

“Honey? You’re home earlier than I thought. How’d your appointment go?”

I didn’t need to see to know Lucas’ actions. First he’d set his briefcase down next to the door. Then he’d hang up his coat. Then he’d—

Stand before me, in his long, black dress coat, looking at me, his brow furrowed. He gasped and covered his mouth with his hand when our eyes met.

“Oh God—” His voice sounded strangled, as if someone had wrapped their hands around his throat. The couch cushion dipped as he sat next to me and opened his arms. The heaving movement of his chest, rapid beat of his heart, and warmth of his flesh as I pulled his shirt out of his waistband and ran my hands up his back only fueled my grief instead of relieving it.

“We’ll get through it, sweetheart. Whatever it is… I’ll be there for you,” he said, enfolding me in a crushing embrace. My resolve to be strong had vanished the moment I’d seen him, and I sobbed into his chest until I couldn’t breathe. We sat in silence, Lucas stroking my hair, as the dark veil of night encroached into our space.

“Lu… the doc ran some tests and….”