Mark sat at the kitchen table, leaning forward with his head in his hands. His glasses were upside down on the tabletop beside a note pad and pen. His phone was sitting on its face across from him. He let out a long breath and then ran his hands through his stiff, brown hair. His eyes were red and damp. His body was shaking. He couldn’t make it stop.
He looked up to the room. The curtains in the living room were drawn tight. Every door, except for the entrance, was open. Every light in the apartment was on.
The conversation kept playing in his mind. Over and over, again and again. He questioned what had been said. He questioned what he had seen even more so. The interaction started to morph, to change shape. He wasn’t sure what was real, what had happened, and what he had created.
Mark stared at his hand written note. He wasn’t sure where to start, or if he should start at all. How did you bring up in conversation that your older sister was dead, when he wasn’t sure if anyone else knew?
He reached across the table for his phone. He hesitated, but then snatched it up and stared at the lit screen. He didn’t see anything at all out of the ordinary, It was just his phone. He let out a breath and pressed down on the button. He typed in his password, and then searched through the contacts for his mother’s phone number.
Image by Kaleigh Kanary