Short Stories : The Widow

Short Stories : The Widow

November 16 was a dreary, gray and early winter day. It was one of those days when it is difficult to get up and have the energy to get dressed. My eyes were on my window and I saw the roofs of the houses from my neighborhood. To the right of the window was my closet, which I would go to to find my clothes. I just couldn't pull myself up. A sluggish sack, I was nothing else this morning. Unfortunately it has been like this every morning for the past few weeks. When I didn't have to go to school, I was always in bed until noon. The season just hit my mind. I had to get up, so I decided to make music to give myself the necessary jerk. It worked and I was, like every morning, surprised by myself. I went down to the kitchen and there I regretted getting up again.

My mother was sitting at the kitchen table and, with tears in her eyes, told me that our neighbor, a friend from my mother's childhood, had passed away. A hemorrhage surprisingly took him out of life. He didn't grow very old and left a grieving wife behind. I was concerned, at least as I was when someone died. I didn't usually care much. Sure, I didn't know our neighbor as well as my mother knew him, but so well that it should have affected me more. At least that's what I thought. Without having decided on a clear feeling, I comforted my mother. In any case, I knew that she didn't deserve to be so sad this morning. I found some nice words that comforted my mother significantly, but still I felt useless at that moment. After all, I couldn't bring him back.

It is probably one of the hardest things in life to accept the death of others and especially your own. Once you understand that all of this is part of life, there is significantly more time to think about how you actually want to use your limited time. It's funny to hear something like that from someone who is only in bed half the winter, but it's true. In theory, at least. I have long understood that everything is finite, that this is completely normal and cannot be otherwise, but I still have no plan for my time. Rather the opposite. You can't go wrong with being a friendly person and I wanted to start straight away.

So I decided with my mother to visit the widow of our late neighbor. We knew both of them, only briefly, but well enough to express our condolences and find some comforting words. We went over, but when we rang the bell nobody opened it. The car was in the driveway and somehow I had a strange feeling. The flowers in front of the door were all withered. They hadn't seen water in a long time. When my mother gave me a questioning look, I suggested I go. We turned away from the door when we suddenly heard a whimper from the apartment. There was no doubt that it was the widow who just didn't want to see anyone. It was a really shattering whimper that made me feel goose bumps all over my body. At that moment I was really concerned. Not because of the deceased man, but because I had to listen to how much suffering death leaves. It was difficult for me to find sleep that night. I could swear to hear the widow's whimper even though some walls separated us.

The next morning, rather the next noon, I found the already opened letter of funeral on the kitchen table. "In the heart you stay with us." Was on the top of the card. The funeral should take place tomorrow. My mother entered the kitchen and interrupted her sentence when she saw that I knew about the upcoming funeral. "We're going, aren't we?" She asked me with an uncertainty that I couldn't figure out. "Of course I do. Why not? ”I answered her with a scrutinizing look. In vain. At my look and at my question she did not respond. "I'm happy and I'm sure she will be happy." She left the room and I nodded to her with a smile. "Definitely," I said. When my mother left the kitchen, a question mark remained in my head. Why did she ask me so uncertainly? She probably just assumed that I didn't want to come along. I haven't either, but it's not a question of lust, but of decency. I also knew how reluctant my mother went anywhere alone. So my decision was made. Tomorrow I will pay my last respects to my old neighbor.

I hadn't had a good night's sleep last night and it wasn't better that night. Hour after hour I turned and rolled around in my bed and couldn't keep my eyes shut. It wasn't the same thoughts that used to take my sleep away. No. All night worries and fears have stayed away. Even though I was tired and had a fairly clear head, I just couldn't calm down. Then suddenly I heard it. A cry, a lament that was so loud that it must have been right in front of our house. Since I couldn't sleep anyway, I decided to get up and take a look. Maybe something happened to someone who needs my help now. Little excited that I had to leave my warm bed, I got up. I stood at the window of my room and looked at an empty street. I could still hear the howling clearly, but I couldn't tell who it was from. I went to the bathroom and looked out the window. Now I saw the main street and I kept my eyes open. There was a feeling of uneasiness in me because I quickly imagined the worst at such moments. I didn't see anyone, but the howling grew louder and slowly I could make out a direction from which the crying came. The sound came to me and I was startled when I heard a desperate scream. I got hot and struggled with fear. I didn't even feel the cold marble I was leaning on. I wasn't sure if I really wanted to see the misery that made such noises. Before I could really make a decision, I saw it. My neighbor - the widow. She slid her feet in front of her and whimpered, cried, just screamed into the night sky. So she staggered the road from left to right! Tlang, until I took the courage together and shouted to her "Can there be any help?" I didn't know what to say in such a situation. Where from? You will never be prepared for such encounters. As soon as the echo of my voice died away in the street drenched in the night, the widow looked me straight in the eye. It was a very intense moment and I didn't think about saying anything else. She scared me and for a brief moment I was paralyzed. I felt like the woman could jump straight off the street into my bathroom if she wanted to. Before I could say anything else, she returned to her house. She had become silent and as long as I could still see her she looked me in the eye. Her eyes were tired and it looked as if there was no spark of joy left. When she was gone, I lay back in my bed. I was not rested that night. This time it was the dead silence that prevented me from sleeping and with my thoughts I was now with her. I felt so sorry for her.

The day of the funeral had come. I had breakfast with my mother and there was an oppressive silence in the air. Not just at the table we ate at, but also in front of the cool grave where I later stood. Nobody talked much because everyone was busy remembering and saying goodbye. There were a lot of people there, which surprised me a little. I didn't know that our neighbor had been such a popular man. What surprised me even more was that the widow hadn't shown up that morning. Nobody said a word about her either. Probably the grief over her husband's death that morning was particularly great and she just couldn't make it out to people. When I thought about our "encounter" last night, it was more than understandable. I was glad not to have to see her the way I saw her yesterday. At that moment a shiver ripped down my spine like sharp claws.

The following night it was very difficult for me to find sleep again. It was never a problem for me to fall asleep, but apparently it has become so at this point. I lay awake, couldn't rest in my head and rolled back and forth. A very strange and scary dream finally found me and rocked me into a sleep that was by no means restful. I lay in my bed and looked at the door when it slowly opened. With the blanket half over my head, I waited for the evil that trotted after its own shadow. The widow came into my room. A sunken face, a curved back, and shaky legs spoke volumes of the horror she must have been through lately. We looked at each other briefly and nobody said anything or moved. I was scared, but not so much that I should have cried out. Ultimately, she was just my neighbor and recent events had troubled her appearance. I let that scary moment pass and watched the widow enter my closet. She opened the door and gave me looks like a mangy dog ​​would ask for permission to enter. When I didn't respond, she went in, closed the door behind her, and silence fell. After a few minutes, I realized how my entire sheet was soaked with sweat. I actually thought about cleaning it up briefly, but a gradually familiar whimper pulled me out of that thought. It was a sound I didn't want to hear in my ears. The whimpering and howling became so loud that I panicked. At that moment, however, I didn't know how to help myself and tried to calm down. It was difficult for me when there was a hasty scratch on the closet door. The sound of splintering N & au! ml passed through me like a lightning bolt that could have killed me. For the time being, this would definitely help me. I just wanted to wake up again.

My alarm clock rang without feeling rested in any way. I was awake again. I usually cursed my alarm clock and its caustic way of saying "good morning," but I refrained from doing so that morning. My tired eyes flew across the room and when I saw my closet I remembered my dream. I lay tense in bed and the sound of the kinking and breaking fingernails shot through my head again. I sneaked up to a drawer in my room with a knife. I never intended to do anything to the widow, but at that moment I felt safer. I was not quite with myself after this disturbing night. Not knowing what would happen in the next few seconds, I moved to the closet door with my knife in my hand and prayed that everything was just a waking dream. One of those dreams you just don't know if they really happened or not. When my hand trembled to the closet door, I could have cried for fear of seeing her face again. I gathered my courage and yelled open the door. The closet was empty. I fell to the ground in relief and realized that all of this could only have been a dream. How should the widow have gotten into our house? I laughed with relief and wondered about myself and what a fool I was sometimes. The laugh could have been happy. It was the last time for a long time.

Every night I "dreamed" what happened that night. Every night I sat paralyzed on my bed and looked at the closet door. How it opened, how it closed, and how the whimpering, howling, and scratching seemed to get louder. It all felt so real that I had lost my belief in a dream. However, I could never be sure because I sat paralyzed and huddled on my bed every night and was too afraid to find out for sure. I started eating less, drinking less and thinking less about something else. I also stopped going to school. I didn't know who I could talk to. I didn't want my mother to think I was crazy.

In the following days I was able to find my behavior in my mother's behavior. It also seemed to be a bit of a burden. At first I didn't want to ask because I had to carry my own package, but something had to happen. I decided to talk to her. She should know about my problems and I should know about her.

The conversation lacked its peers - few words, much horror. My mother has been through the same thing the past few nights. Now all doubts were gone - it was not a dream. We looked for a solution and decided to put up with the whole thing. After all, she was our neighbor and was going through a difficult time. We wanted to help and the thought of doing something good inspired me. We would have loved to help her differently, but every time we wanted to talk to her, she started raging and hurting herself. She usually shook her head violently, shouting as if her mouth was taped off, and tearing her hair out. We didn't want to call the police and nobody else was interested in them. My mother and I had the strength to endure the whole thing for a while. For some reason the widow wanted to be with us at night and I dreaded the thought of the next few nights, maybe even the next few weeks.

So two months passed with no prospect of improvement. On the contrary - it got worse. The widow changed her behavior and no longer disappeared into my closet at night. It started with her sitting on the floor in front of the closet. She whimpered louder and scratched the outside of my closet door so that I could watch her do it. No - I had to watch her now. Then night after night she moved closer to my bed, became louder and let the scratching be. Instead, she was breathing irregularly now, as if she couldn't breathe. She was watching me. I saw her silhouette in the dark and could have screamed every night, but I held back until she left my room in the morning. For your sake, because I really wanted to help. I wanted to help so much that I had made friends with the ridiculous thought that it would just be over so soon.

In the meantime, I didn't sleep at all and didn't try anymore. The nightmares I would get would only do worse damage. I had to go. The last few nights she had come so close to me that she was almost sitting on top of me and looking down on me. It looked like she wanted to eat me. I couldn't take it anymore, so I moved out. My mother didn't want to come because she loved her house more than anything. My conscience bit me because I left my mother alone in this house, but I also had to think about myself.

When I moved out, my life gradually returned to normal. I really liked the new school that I attended from then on and finally I was able to sleep again. I never would have thought that I could lack peaceful sleep so much. My mother and I were in contact with each other by letter and I was incredibly relieved when I heard that the widow no longer showed up at night. A smile came over me on the way to my desk. I hadn't felt so carefree in months. When I got to the desk, I picked up my pen and sat down. Since I had not gone to school for a long time, I had some catching up to do. I wanted to cry terribly when I realized how well I could ignore this loud knock and relentless scratching on my window.

Author : Markus Göhler