#11 (Part III)

#11 The Table (Part III)

     At once the table collapsed.  Again the wrongness hit me: there was no loud booming sound of wood hitting tile as one would expect in a large, undecorated basement apartment.  It sounded  . . it sounded empty somehow.  Too light.  More like reedy wind chimes than fully realized wood. 
     The collection of wood bits at my feet made no sense at first.  They were an optical illusion my eyes would not sort out.  This was the remnant's of Thorn's table, a table made by a carver-magician.  A table Thunder assured me was important in the community.  A table that gave stability to the officials of the City of Tamorace.  I couldn't see the table for the hollowed insides.  Perfectly empty.  Except . . .
     Except for the envelope protruding green-stick like from the top of one of the shattered legs.  Dread filled me.  I reached for the envelope.

#1

#1 Two Envelopes

    I simply have to trust.
     Resting on the side table are two envelopes.  They are not equal. 
     The first, labeled “Thorn”, is of a thin and blue paper.  I could imagine the wild-men of the plains soaking this offering in kerosene to hang up in the hollows of their walls as windows.  The writing on the outside is heavy, blockish, and printed out.  It is as if a child had written it using a template.  In some spots, especially the curve of the ‘o’, the paper was torn.  In others it was easy enough to see the press of the pencil left scratches behind. 
     The second envelope is of heavier stock, is of ivory cream color, and bears a formal weight to it.  It is labeled ‘Teach’ with the writing done in elegant calligraphy.  I’ve seen the second envelope before, or a very precise duplicate.  I shy away from choosing this envelope, and reach for the envelope labeled “Thorn”.
     Inside is a round trip ticket circa the railways.  Nestled behind is a hotel voucher for a room in the City of Tamorace with the guest’s name as Tracy C. Applewhite.  Wedged between both is a small prayer paper, no richer than a slice of onion skin, with the words, ‘Toothpick Journal.’
     That is it. I’ve no other information. No notice of who or whom to talk to. No contact details or even a calling card. I simply have to trust.

#0

#0 The People Upstairs

     "The thing that's disturbing is there's never any explanation as to what happened."
     My eyes flutter open.  Not that I can see anything in the dim pre-dawn grey light filtering in through the slats on the window shutters.  I lay still in bed, the sound of my breathing not quiet.  It is not the harsh panting that comes from panic, either.  There are nights that I wake up out of a deep and terrible dream, scared a second time by the unfamiliar huff of my breath, the staccato of my heart. 
     Above my head the floor creaks.  The people upstairs are home.  It is their conversation I am hearing, one voice indistinct from the next. 
     "Why it happened."
     Once, not long ago, I would have reached out to rub my hand down my husband's slim, muscled back.  He liked to cocoon himself in layers of blankets.  I'd wait until he was snoring and wiggle my hand under the blankets, sometimes under his side, until I touched warm flesh.  Sometimes I wouldn't fall asleep for hours and hours.  I'd spend all my time cataloging the sounds of my husband in his sleep. 
     "You're left with this feeling of wrongness, and no idea how to fix it." 
     Only my head rests on the pillows now.  It is a large bed for just one person.  Vast. 
     I reach across the bed on instinct, my fingers and palm looking to curl over my husband's warm shoulder.  Just a touch to soothe myself.  When my hand encounters nothing but air I start searching the bed, the blankets for him.  I'm like an addict.  When I realize that he's not here, no longer here, never again here, I start thinking that all I need is just one more touch.  Just one to get me through the day, and through the rest of my life.