Feeling along the wall in the dark, it took him several seconds to locate the light switch. Flipping it, his kitchen exploded around him. Pain shot across the surface of his eyes. Giving his pupils a moment to adjust, Ashe waddled toward the sliver fridge, heading for either a beer or some water to wash down a pain pill. For the second time that evening he found himself arriving at home, stressed and on the verge of a migraine.
He would take anything that would kill the tension building in his head...short of a bullet to the brain. It was tempting but that would relieve a little more than just the tension. Like gray matter. The thought brought back images of Owen's blood soaked bed.
“Where the fuck are you, Scott?” He asked the house. But the building didn’t have a voice to answer. It was hollow and lifeless. The emptiness of his home had never bothered him as much as it did at that moment. Over the years it had become his sanctuary, his fortress of solitude, so much that he had forgotten what it had been like once upon a time. He remembered a time in the past when the walls were filled with life and love. But no more. It had become nothing but a tomb, a tomb that his mind pretended was his home.
Home.
The house was a place for him to rest and to sleep, but it had not been a home in many, many years. He could burn it down, Ashe told himself. He could watch it disintegrate and return to the Earth. He would never be able to do it, however, because the memories of his wife might burn with it. And where would he be without the ghost of his Susanne? Where would he be without the specter of his lost love and the mixture of pleasure and anguish that haunted him during the days of his life? Happy? Possibly. But happiness is overrated, or at least that is what he often told himself.
For a brief instant he pictured Katherine and the red of her shiny hair. He instantly forced her image away. He didn’t deserve the normalcy of a second date with a good looking and interesting woman.
Pausing at the island, Ashe dropped the dream journal down on the smooth and reflective surface. Fishing in his pocket, he found the black and gold container. Putting it on top of the notebook, he glared at it. Unexpectedly, he snatched the container back up and opened it. Empty. As he had figured.
“What did you hold?” he asked the container, as if it would speak.
Closing the container, he put it back on the journal and turned away.
Opening the fridge, he ducked his head inside. Grabbing a bottle from a shelf, he pulled a red bottle opener from a nearby drawer. Violently, he amputated the top of the bottle. Ashe moaned lowly as the cold flow of the Sam Adams entered his throat. Sometimes it was like drinking gold...but better. He swallowed hard before taking another pleasurable gulp. Using his heel to bump the fridge door closed, he flicked the beer cap toward the garbage can. It hit the outer rim of the can and bounced upward and onto the counter top. He walked over to the counter to properly dispose of the cap when he noticed that his answering machine once again had two messages instead of one.
Reluctantly, he pressed the PLAY button.
Katherine's voice sprung to life. “Ashe? Usually I take a man storming out on a first date as rejection. But I will forgive you...for bailing on me in the middle of a meal. It wasn't even the middle of the meal. It was...pre-meal. There is a first time for everything. And it was the first time, I hope you know. I am a damned sexy piece of red head and men usually wait until the next morning and sneak away. Just kidding. I am not a whore. I swear.” She giggled. “I hope your old friend was dying or something. Or at least believed they were.” Another cute giggle. “Anyway. I forgive you...once. And once only...by damned. You said that you would call me and I will hold you to it. Or...something of that nature. I am not going to stalk you or anything. I'm not in your closet...I swear it. This is a nice jacket, though.” An even cuter giggle. “Call me. In case you don’t have it my number is…Bye.”
Ashe stopped the machine before it continued onto the next message.
Finishing the beer, he dumped the bottle into the garbage can and flipped the light back off. He paused to once again take in the silence of his house, his self-assembled tomb. Some people spoke about a death rattle, the noise made by the person and their body around the time of dying. But the actual point of death, true death, does not have a distinct sound. There is only silence, nothingness. That was death. Life being replaced by nothing.