2:18. The clock’s crimson glow is a warning. Something is wrong. I lie petrified in the bed, expecting the strident tones of a predawn call. A morbid slide show flashes through my mind: dark and gleaming wood of the casket, the family clinging to each other in grief, a grey gloved hand of a pallbearer gripping the smooth handle. Cloying incense and the scent of freshly turned earth surround me. I hear my own sobs, as heavy pain radiates out from my heart.
There will be no phone call. This is not some hellish premonition. It is the echo of your death. Years later, my mind blessedly let me forget the anniversary of your loss. But the body remembers. It replays the agony of it. Lets it reverberate once more.
Run With It should return next week! :)